Biker Mice: Olympic Sting
by SlushBro19
Summary: This story is about the Martian trio meeting a new enemy, one which makes Plutarkians look like cute little puppies


Prologue

He knew that moving was the wrong thing to do just that moment. Moving was painful… Moving was rash. He spat blood, some of which oozed down his furry face, getting to his hands and looking around him.

'O man…'

At first he thought he had been blinded. He saw nothing, absolutely nothing. All was blackness, thick and complete. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Still the same thing. He licked his lips, shivering as much from the cold of wherever this was as from the beating they'd laid on him.

Wait a minute… Beating? What?...

He frowned, slowly rubbed his face, trying to organize his thoughts, to think past the thick fog in his mind. What beating? Where was he? He let his forehead rest against the cold floor, tried to think back, to recall. Just what the hell had happened?

_'Explain to me again why we're out here?' Vincent looked over at Throttle on the other side of Modo, hiding a yawn - unsuccessfully. 'At night. On the highway.'_

'_You know why, Vincent,' the brown-furred Mouse replied, patiently. 'Limburger's not been seen or smelled in Chi-town for almost a month.'_

'_That means he's up to something sleazy,' Modo contributed, his Li'l Hoss rumbling comfortingly under him. 'We're here to find out what.'_

'_And how do we know he came this way?' Vincent asked, stifling another yawn with his teeth this time._

'_Follow our noses, bro,' Modo told him. 'And the oil spills right down the middle of the road.' He indicated the dark shiny liquid trailing along the dark asphalt. The moonlight of the full white disk illuminated the liquid irregularity of the road. There had been no one else at this hour - 2 am to be exact. Would anyone have cared to investigate even if they had seen it? Humans could be so unobservant, after all. Hiding their heads in the sand, so to speak, in order to avoid facing a problem._

'_Heads up, bros,' Throttle warned them, his spec-enhanced vision catching sight of a cold white glow off to their right. 'Look.'_

'_Those look like strobe lights,' Modo opined. 'A night movie shoot?'_

'_In the middle of nowhere?' Vincent snorted. 'There'd be a lineup of trailers and paparazzi by now.'_

_Throttle agreed. This was eerie: an empty highway at night with strange lights. If he didn't know better - or was an ordinary human - he'd have thought it was a UFO landing._

'_Let's stop here and continue on foot,' he decided. 'Less attention that way.'_

_Leaving their bikes on the shoulder, the three tall Biker Mice quietly walked up to what turned out to be the edge of a small canyon. Lying down on their stomachs, they peered over the edge, helmets beside them._

'_Holy…' Modo whistled. 'What the hell is this?'_

_Throttle put a hand on his shoulder. 'Shh.. we don't want to be heard or seen.'_

_Vincent quickly scanned the bottom of the canyon. There were men and women down there, exercising. He blinked, not quite understanding what his eyes were telling him. Exercising? At night?_

'_Can someone pinch me?' he asked, looking over at his bros. 'Because I think I am seeing things.'_

'_They're… training?' Modo scratched one ear with metallic fingers, puzzled._

_Throttle hummed softly. This made no sense to him either: a crowd of people at night in an empty place lifting weights, running, jumping, playing ball._

'_They are training… but for what?' He kept his voice low, thoughtful._

'_This don't look like the Marines to me,' Modo rumbled._

'_No… Hey! Look!' Vincent tapped Modo's shoulder and pointed to a large metal trailer with LI painted on the side._

'_Bingo, bro!' Throttle chuckled. 'So that's where the Big Cheese is.'_

'_Limburger? Exercising?' Modo let out a cackle - softly of course. 'That'd take the stink off him.'_

'_Maybe he wants to camouflage,' Vincent offered. 'You know, lose all that dinky fat.'_

'_He can't hide from us,' Throttle replied. 'Vinnie, mike it, will you?' he asked, nodding towards the trailer, one window of which was glowing._

_Vincent grinned and took a hand-held version of the mike shooter from his belt. This was another of Charlene's inventions - after a rather unfortunate experience of not having his bike nearby in order to eavesdrop on Greasepit. That girl could cook!_

'So, Mouse,' hissed a soft quiet voice over his head. 'You finally awake.'

His head snapped up, skin tingling unpleasantly. That voice grated on him - as if he had heard it somewhere before.

'Who are you?' he asked, his own voice breaking on the words. They came out as a croak. 'Show yourself.'

A dry rasping chuckle made his skin crawl. This was trouble. Unknown trouble. His Mouse senses were sending red alert signals all over his body.

'Are you sure, little Mouse? Do you really want to see me?' The unfamiliar voice was cloying, seductive. Not good. Not good at all.

'Fine.' He gathered himself against a cold metal wall. Whatever it was, this thing couldn't come at him from behind. Still, if he could locate it… 'Stay hidden. You're probably so ugly you don't want to see yourself in a mirror.'

Another of those dry whispery chuckles. It was a comedian - or fancied itself so.

'Touché, Mouse. Touché. You have spirit.' The voice came closer. 'Which I will crush,' it promised caressingly.

'Try,' he threw back, baring his teeth. 'Good luck.'

There was a dark silence, not empty but thoughtful. Whatever or whoever the lascivious voice belonged to seemed to be considering something.

'They did tell me you Mice never gave up - even after your planet was trashed.' There was approval in the words. Admiration almost. 'That spunk will make it all the more fun to break you. I like a challenge.'

They? Who the hell…? Plutarkians! Of course! It had mentioned Mars…

'Nothing to say now, Mouse? Fish got your tongue?' It was mocking him.

'I wonder what's got yours,' he fired back. 'Stinky fish fins?'

'Good guess, Mouse. Bull's eye.' The voice giggled again. He really was starting to hate that tittering. 'They said you were a smart one.'

'Oh they would know, wouldn't they?' he grunted, wrists dangling off his drawn-up knees. He snorted, shaking his head. He must be going insane since he was talking to a disembodied voice. At least he thought it was disembodied: he could smell nothing, he could touch nothing, he could not taste it - not that he wanted to. He could only hear the voice and that was not good enough. How to make it reveal itself?

'I guess you must've met those two stinking Plutarkian fishes,' he said, probing.

'Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't.' It was evading revealing anything. Damn! So much for that idea. 'Good try, Mouse.' It knew what he was doing. It wasn't stupid.

Well, the shoe was on the other foot, wasn't it? HE was the one in this cell not by his own volition whereas the Whoever/Whatever had come in presumably because it wanted to.

He rubbed his face. He was tired of these games. His head was pounding. His jaw hurt - that must have been one hell of a wallop. He explored his jaw carefully and could not find anything broken. No obvious breaks anyway. That was promising - a sliver of light at the end of one motherfucker of a long tunnel.

'You know,' he called out into the absolute blackness. 'It was very nice chatting with you but uh… it's been a long day and I think I will turn in. You have yourself a nice day.' He infused his words with a cheeky cheeriness - just to tweak its nose (if it had one).

'Oh Mouse, you are a treat.' It sounded hungry, in more ways than one. He shivered a little. Maybe he'd pushed the envelope too far this time - but then, he'd faced longer odds on Mars with his bros. 'I will leave you to your slumber.' The voice grew quieter as if receding into the distance. 'Oh and one more thing, a gift if you will.' Another of those hateful titters. Man, if this thing had a face he'd bash it in just to stifle the inane giggling. 'There is no door to your cell.'

Chapter 1

_'I'm sorry,' Vincent looked at his friends. 'But did I just hear that insane fish from Detroit?'_

_'Brie? O yea, Vin,' Modo confirmed. 'That was the crazy fishfin from Motown.'_

_'And he was discussing a competition with Limburger?' Vincent continued in a mockingly surprised tone of voice._

_'A joint competition.' Throttle pressed his lips together for a moment. 'They are teaming up.'_

_'What for?' Modo scratched his left arm reflectively._

_'Something ugly,' Throttle answered, chewing his lip and glancing back down into the training ground. 'Something that stinks.'_

_'You got that right, Mousebait,' came the unpleasantly familiar voice of Greasepit from behind them. They whirled…_

_But it was too late…_

_There was a flash of blinding white…_

_And then they were falling…_

_Falling far down…_

'O hell…' he groaned, drawing his hands up and down his face and pressing his fingers against the sides of his nose. 'That rancid stinking…' He shook his head, then tapped it against the wall behind him. Of all the… he squeezed his eyes, forcing his poor concussed brain to work, to form thoughts. Greasepit had not come upon them by chance. He was not that smart. He followed that cheesy asshole's orders. Limburger had known then that they would be coming, right? All that oil on the highway had not been there by accident. It had been like the breadcrumbs in that fairy tale Charlie had told them once about a little boy in the forest who had put down pieces of bread to mark his way out.

He sighed, hooking his hands at the nape of his neck. Chagrin at their own gullibility filled him.

'We fell for it… Fuck!'

Usually he did not swear but this was an exceptional situation. He was a prisoner, clearly. Alone. His friends nowhere in sight. He knew nothing except what his battered memory told him in addition to his recent mysterious visitor. The stranger's final words, the 'gift' came back to him.

'There is no door to your cell.'

What the hell did that mean? That he could leave? Just up and go? But... he felt no breath of air, no stirring of wind. There was no smell here either. A sterile prison cell. No holes. No door then.

Did it mean that his visitor could come and go as it pleased? But how?

Questions… questions…

There was one thing he did know for sure: one cell implied there were others. Were his bros there? He tried calling out but no sound came back. His own voice sounded flat, dead - as if the walls contained it. Must be sound-isolated.

For want of anything better to do - or for that matter, because there WAS nothing else to do - he decided to walk about his cell and explore it. Perhaps his hands would tell him something if his other senses were useless here.

'Throttle old boy, just make sure you don't stub a toe,' he muttered with a bitter smirk. 'You will need at least some body parts intact - somewhere down the line.'

'You do realize we need a plan, Vin,' Modo reminded his white-furred friend who was pacing frenetically, restlessly. That was his usual response to inactivity. Vincent craved action the way a junkie craved heroin. He was addicted to danger and risk. He loved the adrenaline pumping through his veins in tight situations. He rarely listened to reason those times. He just acted, consequences be damned. 'And for a plan we need information. Which we ain't got.' The last sentence came out slow, each word spoken separately for greater emphasis. Maybe that would get through Vinnie's self-absorbed pacing.

'Why don't we go get some then?'

'Where?' Modo stood right in front of Vincent. Sometimes his bro of an adrenaline junkie was hard of hearing, it seemed. 'Just where are we supposed to look for it?' He held out his arms encompassing their surroundings. 'We don't even know where WE are.'

That was true, Vincent had to agree. This wasn't Chicago. Was not Earth. Nor Mars either. This was Somewhere…

'And we ain't got our bikes either,' Modo added for good measure. 'We're stuck, bro.'

'You mean we're screwed,' Vincent corrected him morosely, realizing their rather hopeless situation. 'We're Biker Mice from Mars, bro. We can't just sit here.'

'We can't just run around flapping our tails either, Vin,' the tall large grey Mouse cautioned him.

'So, we find us some food then. Some place to lay up for the night,' Vincent suggested looking up at the sky of this Somewhere place. It had a sky, thankfully. A little or rather large fact that you could acknowledge and ground yourself on (so to speak). A sky suggested other celestial bodies like stars, moons, sun - asteroids if you were running on low imagination.

'And quickly.' Modo pointed to a dust cloud in the distance coming over a low hill of something (sand?). 'I don't like the looks of that.'

Vincent squinted a bit but the indistinctly-shaped cloud was too far. His Martian Mouse warrior instincts, however, were screaming at him that on a strange planet, place, whatever this was, clouds of any type were not a good sign. The more prudent course would be to hide and observe. His rash adrenaline junkie self objected to that: he could take on five opponents at once and come out on top. That, though, was possible when he had weapons and knew who the enemies were. This was a mystery - a mystery that for some reason made his skin tingle with a rather nasty sensation somewhere deep in his subconscious. These were not visitors he was dressed and ready for.

'Vin, let's go. Please.'

He started, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Modo didn't use 'please' unless he really was upset or convinced that the incoming baddies were worse than what they'd faced before.

'Right… let's scramble.'

Chapter 2

Lawrence Limburger, the top dog of the Chicago branch of the Plutarkian operation on Earth, watched the door slide shut behind the o so sexy woman (who was not a woman at all) and sighed in relief. That had been an intense meeting. Not because he'd felt any sexual urges, o no. She made his soul crawl, not just his scales. She exuded danger the way the Lugi brothers exuded a killer stench. His teeth itched just from her voice alone. A low seductive purr that could be hypnotising. And dangerous.

No wonder the new Plutarkian allies were called Scorpions. Their voices were the stings in the tail. And that was in addition to their shape-shifting abilities. That 'woman' had been a Scorpion, one of the denizens of this remote planet. He still had no idea why Lord Camembert had decided to take them on as allies in organizing an intergalactic sports event. Did he want to scare potential participants away? The whole point of these Intergalactic Olympics was to invite as many races as possible to come and compete (and of course LOSE). He could have understood if the Scorpions were only here for security and espionage, the two tasks they excelled at due to their unique transformative capabilities. But no…

They had it appeared a rather special assignment: to catch the Biker Mice. They had managed to get one, thanks to a Scorpion 'Greasepit'. That trap had been easy to set after Limburger had debriefed the Scorpion agent as to his knowledge of the Mice's heroic habits. The three of them had walked - or ridden? - right into the Scorpions' clutches.

True, two had been sent in an erroneous direction on this planet but that was a mistake to be rectified soon. There was a Scorpion patrol searching for the two of them. When - not if - they were finally captured… Limburger found himself strangely pitying them. They had not the slightest idea what they had stumbled into. They were as blind as… mice… He smiled at his own irony: he too was blind. The Scorpions did not tell him anything unless it was on a need-to-know basis. He too was in the dark. Well, for once he and his nefarious enemies had something in common - they were all in deep trouble.

Modo, panting hard, made it the last little bit to get over the edge of the cliff and out of sight of the incoming hostiles. Vincent was right behind him, his white fur covered with dirt and dust. He leaned against the rock nearby to catch his breath. Modo was on his knees, his whole body shivering.

'Those.. are.. scorpions,' Vincent managed to whisper through dry lips. They'd not dared to stop and drink. Now both were parched. Modo's breath was rasping - could it be heard by the ugly-ass Scorps?

'Yea… and they can sting, bro.' Modo flopped against another rock, wiped his face. He was hot, tired. 'We can't rest, Vin. Not long. If they catch up to us…'

'We'll be stuck mice,' Vincent finished for him, not happy at that prospect. 'As if we were not stuck already.' He coughed dryly: all this dust was making him choke.

They were lost, in fact. They had no idea where they were. They had no way of finding out where they were. They had no compass. Not even their bike helmets which could have been useful as they had GPS built in. They only had their Mouse senses - which were in panic mode just now.

'We need quiet and time to think,' Modo agreed, kneading his knees and calves. He'd never run so much in his life. 'Those Scorps won't give us that.'

'How about we give 'em something to think about?' Vincent suggested, looking around at all the rocks. 'We bury 'em - in stone.'

'Why don't we see if they know we're here first?' Modo advised from the edge of the cliff, looking down. It was getting darker now, so harder to see. Martian Mouse eyes were better than human ones, though. 'They're milling about down there. Do scorpions have noses?'

'No idea, bro. Biology wasn't my thing.' Vincent shrugged. The notion of scorpions with noses did not please him. The stings were bad enough.

The dozen or so Scorpions down below were rattling their tails like snakes, their front claws clicking rhythmically. They seemed to be communicating - something to someone? The two trapped Mice up top looked at one another, thinking the same thing: this whole set up stank.

'O mama,' Modo groaned jumping back as a large streak of white hit the ground right in front of him. He stumbled, deafened by the electrical explosion. 'A lightning storm.'

Vincent shivered, all his fur standing up from the charges of electricity in the air. His antennae were thrumming, making his teeth itch.

'We gotta get out of here, bro.' He looked over at his grey buddy. 'Otherwise we're Mouse fries.'

Modo couldn't agree more but there was - or actually were - several problems behind them. The Scorpion patrol was on their trail still. Somehow they'd figured out a way to follow them. They must have noses, Modo reasoned, or something along those lines. The two of them had tried laying false trails, doubling back on themselves, staying low - all useless.

'Just how do we shake em off?' he muttered in irritation, grunting as another lightning blast shattered the night.

'Follow me, bro.' Vincent took his elbow, his eyes lighting up with adrenaline glee. 'We take em to a lightning dance class.'

Modo looked at him for a split second, not understanding, and then it hit him.

'Yea, bro! Good one. Let's shake their foundations!'

They set off across the lightning-blasted plain, dodging the electric detonations and sometimes barely avoiding falling into the lightning-made craters. They could not speak to each other over the ear-splitting explosions so they resorted to Martian Mouse hand signals. Sometimes that did not work since the white light was blinding - Throttle's specs would have been great about now - or just plain old sunglasses. They had neither. Periodic pauses to adjust their eyesight became a necessity. Not only that: they had to check behind them for the Scorpions, who did seem to experience some problems.

'Vin, look.' Modo pointed with his metal finger. 'They're hesitating.'

'Good,' Vincent smiled, a nasty snarl. 'I see a few of them have been fried.'

Indeed, three of the Scorpion patrol were smoking un-moving hunks of flesh. Their exoskeletons had not protected them against the overpowering heat and force of the lightning. The others were at a loss now: should they follow their orders or abandon pursuit? The hissing of the electric bolts from the sky reduced their ability to communicate with clacks and rattles. Too much interference. Yet orders were orders…

'They're coming,' Modo shook his head, exhaling sharply. For some reason, they always seemed to find enemies that did not give up. Made life worth living in a way…

'And they ain't the only ones.' Vincent was looking the other way. 'We're about to become mushed.'

Modo looked over his shoulder and swore. Through the sporadic bursts of lightning they could see another Scorpion patrol. The grey Mouse snarled, despair turning to annoyance to outright anger.

'I've had it with these crawling bastards,' he rumbled, his one eye breaking out into a sharp red light.

Vincent chuckled: finally some action, a righteous brawl. 'There are only ten, bro.' He flexed his fists, cracking his knuckles. His blood pressure started to rise. 'Mano-a-claw?'

'Mano-a-claw and lightning,' Modo growled, his electrified fur bristling and tail lashing.

'You said it!' Vincent howled ecstatically. 'Put on your dancing shoes!'

Chapter 3

'So, bro, you ready for a breakout?'

His head twisted to his left where the voice was coming from. He sat up.

'Vin? Is that you? How did you get in here?' Boy, was he ever so happy to hear a familiar voice!

'Easy,' Vincent reassured him. 'Smashed my way in. You know…'

That he did. Vincent never did things by halves, going down the barrel of a gun.

'Where are you, bro? I can't see you.'

'No wonder.' There was a soft chuckle - slightly mocking? 'There isn't any light.'

'Didn't you bring any?' he asked. Vincent usually burst in with guns ablaze. This cell should've been lit up like July the Fourth fireworks.

'No, didn't want those creeps to see me.'

'Creeps?'

'Oh, you don't know?' Vincent replied gleefully. 'Scorps got you.'

'Scorps?' He had no idea what Vincent was talking about.

'Yea, you know, those black insects that have a sting in their tail.'

'Scorpions?' Throttle shivered and it was not from the cold. The very name of those things made his flesh crawl. A primeval instinct, a fear… 'Vin, we gotta scram. On the double.'

'I hear you, bro…' There was a strange noise: a skitter? He was not sure. And then the voice changed. 'O man! They're coming! I'll be back, bro!'

The voice fell silent. He waited. And waited. But.. No more sounds at all. He listened, strained to hear something, anything… There was not even a tiniest note of air moving.

'Vincent? VINCENT!

'That should do it.' Vincent tied off the makeshift bandage around Modo's thigh. His grey-furred friend grunted, then wheezed. He was exhausted: the day and night long running fight had sapped even his extraordinary reserves of strength. Had he been human he'd have collapsed long ago.

'Thanks, Vin.' He let himself relax, still breathing hard. Sweat rolled down his face and body. There was blood all over his leg and jeans which were shorter as Vincent had had to cut some of the fabric away for bandages.

'No prob, bro.' Vince smiled, glancing out of the cave they'd found to shelter for the night. 'The storm is running itself out. Soon we'll have to move on.'

'I don't know about that.' Modo let his head thump against the stony wall behind him. 'We need some rest, Vin.'

The white Biker Mouse could not disagree with that. His bro was not looking very good just now. His face looked grey - well, greyer. Of the three of them he was the oldest and in this early dawn light of the dying lightning storm his age showed. The run and gun fight had not done wonders for their conditioning either. Vincent too was scratched and bruised in places. He'd had to use parts of his own jeans as bandage material.

'How about we spend the day here then?' he suggested, sitting across from Modo, elbows on his knees. 'You sleep. I'll keep watch.'

Modo gave him a long but grateful look. His white-furred buddy was not exactly the patient watchman material - and right now that did not matter. If Vincent offered, then he was gonna take it.

'Wake me if…' he warned his younger bro.

'Goes without saying, big guy,' Vincent reassured him with a wave of one bruised hand. Those Scorpion exoskeletons were not an easy punching bag to bash. He'd have to be careful with his hand. He moved his fingers, massaged his palm, listening to his friend's light snoring - and painful breathing. The big guy was hurting - and had not told him about all of his wounds. Typical. Self-effacing Modo. Vincent shook his head, sighing sharply.

'That whole honour thing is really overrated,' he muttered as the sun rose on this alien planet.

_'Those Plutarkian shit-faced lap-dogs!' Viktor yelled, unleashing a rapid barrage of laser fire over the rim of the trench they were fighting out of._

_'Careful, bro!' Modo yanked him back as the Plutarkian platoon replied with their own bombs and guns._

_Viktor was gasping, adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream. O this was good! To finally fight back against those scumbag invaders! To watch them drop dead. He chuckled at the concerned look on his younger brother's face._

_'Don't you worry about me, bro.' He shook sweat-matted hair out of his face, coking his laser rifle. 'Let's rock 'em till we drop 'em.'_

_'Vic, no! Bail, bro! That thing's gonna blow!' Modo frantically shouted, scrambling over the broken land to get to his brother who'd sabotaged the Plutarkian war tower but was under heavy fire and could not get out._

_'MOVE!'_

_Modo aimed and fired, trying to cover his brother. He did not - could not - lose him. His mother would never forgive him. His nephew and niece could not - would not - lose their father._

_Gritting his teeth, Modo reloaded his rifle and with his mates kept on slamming at the Plutarkian troops. They asked for no mercy and received none. This was war. War that Mars had not asked for. War that the greedy motherfuckers from Plutark had started. Well, the Mice would finish it. Finish it hard._

_'VIKTOR!' Modo called out, coughing from the grenade and bomb smoke that covered most of this rugged battlefield. Where was his brother? A dry crack, a lurid red light - and he was flying through the air, flailing his arms and legs. His rifle dropped to the ground. He hit it hard. For a split moment he could not breathe, had no idea where he was. Another detonation reminded him, brought his head around. The Plutarkian war tower they'd been attacking was on fire now, pieces of it flying off in all directions. He covered his head to avoid being hit._

_Around him both Plutarkians and Mice were scramming, some on fire, screaming in pain. He rolled over, looked - and remembered._

_'VIKTOR!'_

_Still stunned he stumbled to his feet, in the opposite direction to most of his comrades. His brother.. O no… no.. this… this could not be! Where was Viktor?_

_'VIC! Answer me!'_

_His screaming was raw, ripping his throat to shreds. He pushed past the dead fishscum and wounded dying Martian Mice, blind to all but one thing: finding his brother. His gaze frantically scanned the hot smoking metal debris of the Plutarkian machine. Nothing stirred. Only electricity sizzled._

_'Viktor, talk to me, brother,' he called out, hands cupped around his mouth. Fear and despair filled him. Why wasn't Vic answering?_

_He started climbing over the wreckage, careful not to singe himself too badly. Viktor had headed for the control room. That would be at the top of the machine, right? Where had the top fallen?_

_Then he saw it: a slightly less grey tail than his sticking out from under a large piece of tower engine._

_'NO!'_

_Panicking now, Modo grabbed the twisted metal and yanked it. It did not budge. He roared and pulled harder. This could not be. No. Not Viktor. Not his older bro. He had to be still alive - right? Right?_

'Vic!' Modo shouted as Vincent shook him. The metal fist caught the smaller white Mouse square in the middle of his chest.

'Ouf.'

Vincent's breath caught. His bro had one mean jab. He'd be lucky to get away with only a bruise.

'Modo!' He tried again to reach his friend. 'Bro, you ok?'

The broad-shouldered grey Mouse did not seem to hear him. He sat rigid, staring out into space, his one eye wide open.

'Viktor, is that you?' Modo asked in an uncertain soft voice, raising his hand as if to touch someone.

'Modo, it's me, Vincent,' the worried white Mouse scooted over on his knees and reached out to brush the bigger biker's shoulder. 'Don't you remember me?'

Still Modo did not answer but continued to mutter to this Viktor person (who was that anyway?). That was not good. Did the air in this cave drive travellers insane? Not a comforting thought. He wished Throttle were here. He would have known what to do.

'Man, why do I get stuck with these emotional jobs?'

Chapter 4

Throttle bit back a scream, twisting and convulsing in fiery lancing pain. His throat was too raw to make any sound beyond a harsh ragged groan - but he wanted to cry out in agony anyway. He clamped his teeth on such weakness. On Mars, in Karbunkle's lab, he'd been confronted with ugly despicable villains and dark murderous deeds. He was not about to give these Scorpions what they wanted. He would show them what Martian Mice were made of.

'Excellent, Mouse. You take pain well,' hissed that o-so-familiar snickering voice. Right that moment he really wished he'd had one hand free to punch the living daylights out of that son of a bitch (or of whatever had given it birth). 'I have never had a patient with such incredible stamina and conditioning.'

It was discussing him like a prize fighter of some sort. Kind of reminded him of the Pit Boss. Only the latter could not hold a candle to this. The Pit Boss was a puppy compared to a large angry pitbull. And this pitbull had one hell of a sharp stinger - and not in its tail. This stinger consisted of a long metal rod with sharp edges, a kind of Scorpion Taser. He had numerous different-size cuts all over his torso to prove just how effective the damn thing was - or was that just a testament to the Scorpion torturer's skill?

What did it matter?

He realized that his mind was wandering, his thoughts focusing on factual minutiae in a desperate attempt to preserve a part of his sanity. First it was darkness in solitary confinement. Then mind games. Now physical torture… man, these Scorps had quite a well-thought out program for their 'patients'. What an irony! Patients indeed!

'Shall we continue, my rodent?' the Scorpion crooned into his ear. Throttle was panting, trying to block out the subversive buzz that was getting inside his head, taking root. 'I am rather enjoying your resistance. It is so… refreshing…'

Something cold slid along his left side, along one of his still-unbroken ribs. This 'therapy' session had revealed to him that some of his ribs were indeed cracked - a little bit. After the Scorpion 'doc' had worked him over, some of them became truly damaged. No wonder he had trouble breathing properly.

His current position was not helping matters either. His wrists were shackled together, attached to a rather cold-looking metallic rod that ran to the ceiling of this smelly stinky room. He was literally hanging, his shoulders taking all the strain of his not-inconsiderable weight. Martian macho muscle Mice were no butterflies. Just now that fact was no advantage.

'Hmmm,' the Scorpion moved around his prey, ever so gently caressing the brown Mouse's back (rather like a lover's caress, only this was no lover he'd ever want). It had taken on the appearance of a two-legged creature, neither Martian Mouse nor human, not even Plutarkian. It did not look like anything he was familiar with. But it was one butt-ass ugly some-thing. If he'd taken a rather longer closer look, it'd probably have given him nightmares. 'Silence… it is rather.. Comforting. Is it not?' Its mouth was very very close to his ear. Its breath was a soft brush of air on his fur. 'It holds so much… potential.' The tip of the long metal stick tapped against the other side now. He tensed, ready for another jab, a renewal of the 'therapy'. 'There are so many possibilities,' the Scorpion continued in a leisurely almost lazy tone. 'I could explore this side of you.' The metal tip dug into his right side, painfully so, twisting and grinding. He would have bitten his tongue if he'd not just moved it aside. His teeth grated against one another, his exhausted body spasming. 'Or I could go deeper.' Its voice fell to an almost caressing growl - like a revved up bike rumbling. 'So much deeeperrrr…' A strong longfingered but thin hand for a moment appeared in his line of vision - and then his head was hauled back, roughly. 'How deep would you like me to go, o brave Martian Mouse?'

Lawrence Limburger sat scowling beside his High Chairman. He did not like it. He did not like what he was seeing on the screen one little bit. True, he was Plutarkian, and torture had been one of his more enhanced methods of dealing with his enemies - even these Martian Mice. Nevertheless, the Scorpions took it far, far beyond what he would have done. His own methods appeared paltry, pathetic, beside the art which torture was for the Scorpions.

No, he didn't like this.

No, he didn't envy his Martian opponent. Not one little bit.

Watching how gently the Scorpion orderlies deposited the hapless unconscious Mouse back into his cell (doorless - just how did they enter? He still couldn't figure that out), the Plutarkian representative felt revulsion, a secret weakness that he knew should never be shared with anyone. Not even Karbunkle, his most loyal servant in the coterie of idiots and misfits. Well, loyal up to a certain point. Limburger suspected that dear Dr. Karbunkle had his own agenda, his own secret thoughts.

There were too many secrets in this whole mess. Frankly, he was getting tired of them.

'Marvellous work,' the High Chairman remarked approvingly as the o so sexy woman operative, the same one who gave Limburger uncomfortable shivers, approached through the metal doorway at the far end of the observer room, a long narrow space, walled in Plutarkian glass-steel on one side and some unknown metal on the other. They could see into the laboratory but the 'patients' (what a useless euphemism that was!) could not see outside. Limburger rather had the impression they did not want to. After all, there were cold fish eyes watching them - or the dead eyes of the Scorpion secret police. As far as he was concerned, this whole planet was one giant prison where the inmates, the guards, the wardens - all were spying on one another. Insanity! Plutarkians had things much more organized. They used other races to do the dirty work while they reaped the benefits. That was the most efficient way of running an empire. And that was what Plutark truly was becoming: a vast cosmic empire of various planets, languages, races, cultures. A right cacophony, truth be told…

'I am glad you approve, Lord High Chairman,' the low seductive voice jerked him out of his thoughts. 'I must thank you for providing such a superb - premium - specimen. I have never operated on a Martian Mouse.' She licked her lips. Limburger tried to suppress a fearful shiver. She sounded hungry. Very hungry. Madness! 'A shame that there are not more…' There was just a hint of a disapproving suggestion in her voice.

'Your patrol?' Lord Camembert moved his portly carcass out of the heavy chair he'd been sitting in and paced around the table. So she made him nervous too. Good, Limburger thought. His o so high and mighty leader was a coward at the end of the day. Good to know. Useful for blackmail.

'They have found the other two mice you've told me about. They are being flushed out as we speak.' The Scorpion - who it turned out could change gender as well as voice and shape - hitched her (its?) hip on the only cold metal table. 'But three…' She shrugged and all sorts of interesting motions happened under the dark blue lab coat she wore.

'Ah, you would like more Mice,' the obese Plutarkian leader chuckled, already calculating gold gill prices he would charge these Scorpions.

'Yes, breeding stock,' she replied, as if clandestinely she'd read his greedy thoughts. Surely he did not think he'd make tons and tons of gills selling Mice for her labs, Limburger laughed inside. 'Male-female couples. Fertile.' Her head, with its long dark hair that fell to her heels, shook. 'Like that one.'

'My dear,' the Lord High Chairman put on a reasonable tone sensing his deal was slipping through. 'Surely… I do not think that he would be capable of anything in his present condition…'

She smiled, not a pleasant sight. That smile reminded Limburger of a shark - of Brie in fact.

'You forget, Lord Camembert,' she said suavely (what a deadly voice hers was!). 'That I was trained as a medic. I possess different varieties of painkillers and other medicines… Some help speed up the healing process… among other functions.'

Limburger was suddenly filled with the certainty that he did not want to know what those other functions were. And once again he felt a strange sort of pity for that hapless Mouse. Was he getting soft? Or was this just a new kind of anxiety, a reflection of his dread of their new alien - truly alien in many important ways - allies? He had no answers. He was sure his o so mighty leader did not have any either.

'I see,' Lord Camembert murmured. 'You break your patients gradually. You start with easy pain and then escalate.'

'Indeed. A gradual buildup. I want them to get used to the old kind of pain before introducing a new one. I want them to have stamina. I want to test it, improve it.'

'May I ask what for?'

Her smile was slow, nasty. Limburger, swallowing his dread, kept his hands out of sight behind him, clenched.

'Come with me tonight, my lord. I will show you.'

Darkness. Thankfully. Mercifully.

Light was pain. Light was danger. Light was blood. Light was deadly.

He moaned softly, hating himself for such weakness, such fragility. What would his bros say if they could see him now? They wouldn't think him feeble. They'd probably help him any way they could for one thing. And for another they'd smash and trash everything and everyone in and out of sight that had caused their bro even the slightest bit of harm. But that would happen only if they knew where he was. And they didn't. He had tried to call out via the special link, via the antennae but… either they were too far or his mind was not able to focus well. He coughed, his exhausted broken body shuddering. He could not - would not - move. He simply lay where he had been left, blood pooling under him. He smelled the metallic tang, a fragrance he was very familiar with. War… it reminded him of war… of battlefields. Of his bros.

Why weren't they here? What had happened?

He moved his hand, barely. It had clenched into a hard fist. It scraped across the blood-slick floor, erratic, aimless. Helpless. The airy sensation of his own fingers on his face startled him. He was starting to forget he had a body at all. Every part of him ached as bit by bit he began to drag himself across the floor, pretty sure he was leaving a blood-slicked trail behind him. He just needed something… different. Some other sensation against his lacerated skin and matted fur than blood. It was safer too to be against a wall. He'd face them then.

Them…

It…

Him…

Damn, it was hard to keep all these shapeshifts in a clear order. To think and make sense was practically impossible. He sighed, slumping exhausted against the invisible metal wall. He would not even try. It was a useless exercise. Maybe what was really necessary now was to rest, to sleep - to forget. Yeah… Oblivion. It offered solace, peace… Peace...

He reached for it.

Chapter 5

'Throttle?' 'Bro!'

Modo and Vincent cried out as one, starting up, wide-eyed and awake. For a long moment they could not make sense of what they had seen.

'Was that..?' Modo blurted without thinking, tensed up.

'Where was that?' Vincent turned to stare at his friend who gave off the impression of finally being aware of his surroundings. Vincent had been becoming very worried over the last couple of days. After that dream, nightmare, whatever, the big fella had just shut down. Completely. He would not talk - not that he talked on a good day anyway. He would not look at Vincent either - had he done something? The youngest of the Biker Mice had asked himself that question many times. Nothing that he knew about. He'd tried once to ask Modo who Viktor was and his only reward had been a stony silence. Modo had always kept his secrets close, so such a response was not really a surprise. The broad-chested grey Mouse was sensitive - and silent. Some would have called him sullen. But Vincent knew better.

'That was Throttle. Right?' Vincent asked, unsure. This planet was one weird hellhole. Nothing made sense here. Illusion. Deception. Delusion. Manipulation. Those were the only certainties that Vincent was able to sustain. As for the rest…

Modo inhaled and slowly exhaled, finally turning to look at his younger bro.

'I think so. He didn't look good.' His metal fist tightented. His teeth grated. His remaining eye took on a crimson shade. 'They will pay, those insect scum.'

'You know…' Vincent rubbed his shoulder: the flare belt was chafing his stained fur and skin. 'If that is Throttle, if that was a real vision.. whatever…'

'... Then it's a trap.' Modo's voice was a low angry thunder.

'So why are we sittin' here, Modo?' Vincent was up, stretching: sleeping on rocks was not doing wonders for his depleted conditioning, macho Mouse or not. 'Let's go rock em till we drop em!'

Yea, that was the first good idea he'd heard in days, Modo decided. It'd give him something to do instead of bashing his head against the wall over his newly woken grief and guilt for Vic's death.

'Let's go pound em, Vin.'

'They're coming, your friends,' whispered the hateful presence in his brain. 'They're good, you know. I have to give you Mice that. You don't back down.' An approving kind of chuckle made him shiver - half in annoyance, half in despair. Not again! Could these Scorps not leave him alone!

'So, you come to gloat again,' he wheezed, keeping his eyes closed. No point in opening them. He'd only see nothing as usual. 'You're wasting your time, you dried-up insect.'

'You truly believe that?' the Scorpion smirked, smug. 'Don't you want to see your friends again?'

He gasped, despite himself, raising his head. He found himself more alert, still aching but able to move more freely. They'd been giving him something after 'therapy' sessions. He did not resist when they'd poured liquids down his throat. Not because he did not want to but because he was not able to. Clearly they wanted him to remain somewhat 'healthy'.

'A real health freak…' He remembered Charlie saying that. It brought a small smile to his face. A smile which died soon: he could not remember her face for some reason. That worried him. A lot. If he forgot what his friends looked like…

'I can show you what they are doing right this moment,' the seductive voice offered. It seemed to have come right near his ear. He inhaled sharply, raising one fist as if to ward it off. 'Watch…'

He opened his mouth to protest but found himself unable to. Instead it felt as if some door had opened in his mind. He gasped, staring fixedly in front of him at…

… Vinnie kicking an eye in as lobster-like claws tried to close on him. The shiny black creature screeched - a piercing sound that cut at his ears - and staggered. His white-furred bro wasted no time on self-congratulation (he was not out of danger yet) but skimmed up towards the very tip of the tail where with one flare he burned off the stinger. The wounded Scorpion leapt into the air, tail lashing but Vincent was already off and on to another, brighter-coloured specimen. This one was bigger but the white Mouse took him head on without hesitation. That was pure Vinnie: when there was mortal danger he became focused, his motions so precise that it was hard to believe that the Motormouth of Mars and Vincent the Freedom Fighter were one and the same Mouse. His younger bro was not as shallow as he might come across on first impression. He knew that. Modo knew that. And he knew that Charlie knew that too.

Speaking of his other bro, Modo had three Scorps on him, smoking exoskeletons indicating that his arm cannon was working perfectly well. In fact as Throttle watched, gripped helplessly by this 'vision', the blast of white fire hit one of the ugly creatures right in the eyes, not only blinding it but also knocking it backwards into some of its fellows.

'Yes, Modo!' Throttle could not help it: he pumped the empty air with his fist, grinning. 'The eyes! Go for the eyes!'

As though both had heard him, his two mates concentrated on attacking the cephalothorax and the eyes on top of the Scorpions' flat and tubular bodies. More shrill shrieking that made his teeth ache and his ears throb (but he didn't mind), and then the last two Scorpions turned tail and ran off, leaving behind a smoky reek.

'My my… those are some desperate fellows, don't you think?' the suave voice broke his happy moment. He snarled softly, turning his head towards where he thought the voice was coming from.

'You spineless spider wannabes,' Throttle laughed hoarsely, taunting his Scorpion jailer. 'You have no idea what you just put your claws into. You're all toast.'

'Ah that's the spirit I expected from you,' the Scorpion hissed in admiration. 'But you see, my dear Mouse.' The word 'dear' came out like a soft caress on his senses. His spine tautened. There was something predatory - possessive - in that one word. 'My dear Martian Mouse, it is too late… for them… and for you.'

'What are you talking about?' he snapped, half rising from his spot near the wall.

'I control you, Mouse.' The voice whispered deliciously. It sank lower. 'Your actions… your thoughts… all mine… YOU ARE MINE.'

Something seemed to snap inside him, some part of him detached. He crumpled to the floor, groaning, fighting this sudden alien emptiness. An emptiness that was not him, not Throttle. He convulsed, cold slamming into his spine. The frozen hard ice of fear, primeval fear, instinctual imperative to resist, to not let this THING win.

'No,' he ground out from between tightly clenched teeth. 'I. Will. N-n-n-NEVER. Be. Yours.' Each word cost him. Each sound was hard to get out when his own hand was wrapped around his throat squeezing. His body might not be under his control but his mind… he would fight to the end, no matter how bitter it might turn out to be. 'You. Will. NOT. Have. Me.' His breathing was ragged, his heart was trying to leap out of his chest, his damaged body fought while his mind fragmented. He was trying hard to hold pieces of himself together. He had to. He wouldn't - he couldn't - let this Scorpion win.

'Resist all you want,' the detested insect whispered in his head, making his battered skull vibrate. 'If I can make you strangle yourself, I can make you do other less pleasant things.' There was a dark kind of promise, a chilling certitude of power in the soft tone, the treacherous words. 'You will betray your own little self. You have already betrayed your friends. What is one more?'

'Stop talking in riddles, insectoid creep!' He rolled over onto his stomach, wrestling back control of his body, gasping and coughing. 'I didn't betray them!'

'Are you sure? You called for them. You showed them where you are. They are on their way right now.' The tone firmed, beating at his mind, making him believe what it said. 'They plan to rescue you… but instead this spider will get them.' It laughed, long, hard, driving its point home into the very centre of his brain, his mind. 'They will die. And you will watch them die. Slowly. Painfully.' His heart was grabbed and twisted. He screamed, lurching over onto his back despite himself, a distant corner of his tiring mind surprised that he was able to emit any sound at all. 'You are just a trial run, Mouse. Before we get to the rest of you.'

Tumbling and sliding into oblivion, Throttle lashed out with his own fiery defiance, a warning to his bros to stay away, a warning he knew they would not heed…

… because of the Biker Mice Code: you never left a bro behind - even if it meant walking into a fatal, terminal, trap.

Napoleon Brie, the self-proclaimed Plutarkian genius, watched in delight as the brown Mouse fought the mind control of their Scorpion ally. These Scorpions fascinated him. Their methods meshed well with his own thinking. Why hire inept goons like Limburger had done when you could simply invite these super-efficient super-effective Scorpions? Lord Camembert had done the right thing to hand over his Olympic team to be trained and perfected by these experts. The Plutarkian team was raking in medals which meant that the Plutarkian leadership was very happy and generous with their henchmen whose goons they were using.

Even that Martian rodent was coming along quite nicely: he had almost asphyxiated himself. That had been a treat to watch - although Limburger had not looked too pleased. Must be getting soft after all these years on Earth. The longer you knew your enemy, the closer to them you became. This kind of close relationship was inevitable in a way but to actually let it get to you… Well, that was just plain wrong. Perhaps he could use that bit of speculation to his benefit in order to earn favours from the Lord High Chairman.

'I see what you meant,' the Lord High Chairman spoke, thoughtfully chewing a handful of slime worms, the bowl in front of him. His appetite did not seem to be affected by the sight of the tortured Mouse. Few things really could dent his sangfroid. 'Interesting… How long do the effects of this 'therapy' last?'

'Since the patients are healed - most of the way shall we say?' the Scorpion tittered, a sound that Brie found highly enjoyable and Limburger teeth-grating. 'The therapy sessions' effects are cumulative. The bodies and minds of these lucky ones are broken gradually,' the human-looking creature peered into the screen intently. 'Of course if they resist as much as this one… it is more pleasurable.' The female licked her lips (she had them in this form). 'More sensual. With more lasting effects.' Her last words were a hungry whisper which Brie could appreciate. This Mouse was lucky indeed to have such an expert working on him.

Chapter 6

That water he'd drunk must've been somethin' because he was seeing things - or one person, actually.

'Ch-Charlie? Babe? What are you doing here?'

She smiled, melting his heart and his knees and pretty much everything else. That smile floored him every time. She could wipe the floor of her garage with his tail at that point and he wouldn't have protested one little bit.

'Vinnie? Are you alright?' she asked, concerned, her gentle fingers brushing his cheek. He almost took her hand but didn't. 'I've been looking for you guys.' That last bit was somewhat of a letdown: she was not just looking for him alone…

'We uh… we ran into some… turbulence, shall we say?'

Her very expressive eyebrow lifted. He scratched his head - his hands itched to smooth out that familiar manifestation of disbelieving annoyance.

'Just where are you guys?'

'Honestly? No idea, babe. We're… somewhere.' That was a hard admission: her best opinion mattered to him.

'But… your bikes…'

'What about them?' He wished he knew what had happened to their rides.

'I found them on I-290, abandoned.'

'The Plutarkian scum didn't take em, eh?' That was interesting: those stinking fish really wanted the bikes. And how were the Scorpions involved in all this?

'No… which is why I assumed you were still on Earth but…'

'Listen, Charlie-babe,' he took her elbow, steering her into the garden. The fact that they were walking among Earth greenery did not strike him as strange. This was a dream, right? Wasn't it? He shook off the bothersome warning itch at the back of his mind. 'I'll tell you…. We ain't on Earth, sweetheart.'

She stopped and gaped. 'You're not?' Her voice shook a bit.

'No… it seems this place is where Scorpions live.'

'Scorpions!?' Her entire body shivered, shimmered really. Her revulsion was clear to see in her grimace.

'Don't worry, baby-cakes. We gave em a beating.' He smirked, buffed his nails on his chest in unconcern. 'Fried Scorps for lunch.'

'Ew… you ate them?'

'Well…' he laughed a little. He loved shocking her. 'Since there wasn't anything else…'

'When was the last time you ate? Truly?' There was clear concern in her green eyes that looked up at him.

Now that he thought about it… it had been a long time, hadn't it? They had found water - with a funny taste. Was that why he was hallucinating? Was this a hallucination?

'Listen, Charlie… don't come here. Wherever this is, just don't.' He took her by the upper arms. 'This place is way too dangerous for you.'

'But..' she began the inevitable protest and he shushed her with a kiss.

'Look after the bikes, babe…' His fingers touched her soft hair. 'Please…'

'Vinnie!'...

He started awake, his face stinging. Instinctively his hand went to touch the hurting part.

'What?'

'Vinman, what you think you're doing? You almost walked off a cliff!' Modo's face resolved itself into a mask of worry and anger.

'I… what?' Vincent sat up, feeling every bruise. 'You been beating up on me, bro?'

'You was walkin', Vin,' Modo repeated, kneeling, shoulders hunched. 'I barely managed to hold you back.' There was a world of hurt in his face, something Vincent had rarely seen. The big fella rubbed his hands together, clearly upset. 'I don't wanna lose you too.'

Vincent did not know if he was talking about Throttle or that Vic guy. Modo still would not even mention that dream (if that's what it had been) and Vincent didn't ask anymore.

'I think that water, bro, had some special ingredients,' the white Mouse said, brushing the back of his head. 'I saw Charlie…'

Modo gave him a sharp look. He had seen his brother. Vincent had seen Charlie.

'This is voodoo, bro,' he rumbled, his fur bristling. He looked off into the distance, disgusted. 'They're messing with our heads.'

It took Vincent a moment to catch what his oldest friend was getting at. Modo thought deep but did not always share his thinking, only his conclusions.

'You mean the Scorps are playing with our heads?' he asked, just to confirm. His thoughts were still a little muddled - either from Modo's helping hand or the dream vision thing. It had been so REAL though!

'Yea, and I don't like it. That aint fair.'

'Ha! Fair? Take a good look at em Scorps, bro! Fair and Scorps is one hell of an oxymoron.'

'Oh we've been numskulls.' Modo shook his head in disdain.

'Mine sure feels numb.' Vincent moved his jaw about. 'I like male bonding... But…'

Modo stood up, extended a hand to him.

'Let's move on, Vin. We have a long way to go.'

'Where ARE we going, Modo?' Vincent asked, dusting himself off. They had been following the trail left by the retreating wounded Scorpions - and those that were keeping a close watch on them. That last fact they had discovered two days ago during Vincent's turn at watch. He had been sitting staring out into the night when he'd heard a skittering sound and then rocks moving. His sensitive ears picked up the now familiar hissing of the Scorpions. Since the two mice had no fire, they too could blend in with the night and hear the insects. Vincent had smiled to himself. It seemed the two of them were VIPs: Very Important Prey.

'Wherever they are leading us,' Modo replied, sighing.

'I hate being led,' Vincent remarked, grimacing.

'Well, we had our turn at being the lead dancer. Now it's theirs,' Modo reasoned.

'Hmph,' Vincent huffed. 'This is like dancing in the dark.'

'We have nothing to light, Vin.' The grey Mouse turned to look at him. 'And if that was Throttle…'

Well, that was the rub, wasn't it? They still were not sure if what they had seen was genuine. What if that whole vision was a lie - like Brie had done with the tapes he'd sent back to Mars that one time?

'Let's just say it was. So, what do we do? These bozos can send out a dozen Scorps to catch us, an equal number to track us. They have numbers, bro. These are some damn long odds…'

Modo couldn't help it. He gaped at his younger friend. His ears must be deceiving him. Vincent talking about prudence. Vincent actually talking sense!

'That water must've really had somethin' special…' His voice was softly wondering. 'Are you sure you're Vincent and not some voodoo doppelganger?'

'After your wallopin', I think you'd be the one to know best, bro.' Vincent flashed him a cheeky grin. Modo shook his head: his bro's optimistic ego couldn't be dented. He'd be making jokes even if all the universe were going to hell.

'And here I was gonna ask you about your plan, Vin Van Wary.'

'Haha. Very funny,' Vincent replied sarcastically. 'Look at it this way,' he offered conspiratorially, leaning in, one hand on Modo's shoulder. 'They think they are the hunters and us the prey, right?' Modo nodded, and Vincent held up one finger. 'But actually WE are hunting THEM - we are BEHIND them. Dig it, bro? WE are the hunters.'

The reasoning was specious but the bigger Mouse wasn't going to argue. Right now he would take all the optimism he was offered.

'The human female - the white Mouse has feelings for her.' The Scorpion operative smiled. 'That is useful information. An additional lure to bring him and his friend here.' He looked around at the other agents in the boardroom. 'I propose that we should bring her here. Her actual presence would be even better bait for our prey.'

There were nods around the oval table. Today the anthropomorphic forms prevailed among those present. Easier to conduct discussions. This meeting was designed to gauge the opinions of his supporters and opponents, some of whom were in this room. For now the innocuous proposition did not seem to be eliciting any antagonism.

'Are there any volunteers to execute Operation Snatch?'

There was a short-lived silence as the Scorpion operatives exchanged glances. Carrying out this assignment successfully would assure promotions for the individuals involved. Not being successful was not an option: failure in this organization was published severely. As in death penalty - and not a pleasant quick death either. The penalty for incompetence was a stint with the medical corps: their therapy sessions were designed to remind one of one's less than stellar performance in subtle ways. Death became a release. In short, missions such as this were one sure way of getting rid of one's dangerous opponents - especially if the mission was rigged for fiasco. Which often it was.

Hence the silent scrutiny: who would put their stings on the line?

'For this operation I would need three agents, working as a team. Like these Mice do.'

Working as a team: now that was a dangerous idea. His allies would work together to bring the human female here. His opponents too - simply to spite his face. But a mixed team of allies and enemies… Well, that was the rub, the trigger of failure. To be promoted one had to work with friends and enemies. Such were the rules of the power game here. However, should there be a numerical advantage for his allies or his enemies? Two for him and one against? Or one for him and two against? All of them were aware of the rules, of what was expected, what he wanted.

'I know that all of you in this room are quite capable, quite experienced, operatives. I would not have brought you together here otherwise.'

His words were filled with irony: inexperienced agents were dead ones. But flattery never hurt.

'You all have exemplary records of service.' His eyes were still friendly. 'Why do we not vote?'

There was a hushed stir. Voting was rare. It usually occurred when the question under discussion had reached an impasse and so numbers were called for. Stalemates were not a regular occurrence given the deadliness of the Scorpions attending any meeting. Most of the time difficult issues were resolved more or less 'peacefully'.

Snapping his fingers the commander of the Scorpion Secret Service summoned a lesser younger Scorpion operative who was also in humanoid form today and whispered in his ear. Bowing, the underling sashayed out and returned with a locked box, covered with a stylised gold Scorpion, the official seal of the Commander of the SSS. The other operatives watched avidly and coldly as the box was deposited gingerly and reverently in front of their chief (who could become an un-chief should his enemies so wish). After one knowing glance around at his engaged eager agents, the Commander lifted the lid and extracted a smaller box inside which were stacked the small chips into which the vote would be transmitted mentally by the Scorpions, indicating their choice while preserving secrecy and privacy.

'Choose your best friend or worst enemy,' the Commander advised passin the box to the underling to distribute the voting chips. They would change colour once a vote was registered and could not be altered.

'Let us begin.'

Chapter 7

'Finally some greenery,' Modo observed, shaking his head and scanning their new surroundings in the midday light of the yellow-red sun of this place. 'I was starting to think we were back on Mars - after the Plutarkians had dug it up.'

Vincent agreed. All that unrelieved rock and sand had started to grate on him. It was depressing really.

'So, any brilliant plan to get us inside the city over there?' He nodded his head at the shimmering roofs and gleaming metal buildings.

Modo scratched his cheek, flaking away dirt and grit. They had not had a proper wash for what felt like months. His fur was matted in places and glued together by muck they'd waded through. Vincent actually looked worse. His formerly gleaming white fur was now grey. They could almost be brothers… Well, they were…

'I say we scope out the city first. We're in unknown territory, Vin.'

'We don't exactly fit in with the locals, bro. We can't just saunter in,' Vincent objected, unsuccessfully trying to clean his tail somewhat. He was not in the best of moods: his pride and joy, his studly bod, was all smeared. He was starting to smell too - as was Modo. This whole living on the run thing was gettin' rancid - and boring, quite honestly.

And the visions, dreams, whatever they were, were not helping his own or Modo's mood. There was something very wrong with those nighttime apparitions. All his instincts were yelling at him about the impossibility of Charlie communicating over long distances. At least he assumed that they were nowhere near the Solar System.

'If the smell won't give us away…. Our looks will,' he pressed his point home, giving up on his tail with a disgusted sigh. When they got back to Earth, he was going to lock himself in Charlie's shower till every hair of his fur was spotless, he promised himself. the IF of their return did not cross his mind.

'We can't just walk up to any Scorpion and ask them for their clothes, Vin,' Modo objected, resting his elbows on his knees. He really was not well: the running and fighting on an empty stomach were taking their toll, not to mention his slowly healing leg. His eye had lost its brilliance. The corners of his mouth were drooping. The gold of his earrings was dull. He was thinner too.

'Who said anything about askin', bro? We're on enemy turf. We'll just take, civilized rules be damned.' The white Mouse's face darkened. 'Especially after what they've done to Throttle.'

'If those visions are true…' Modo cautioned, flinching a little bit.

The dreams were getting more intense now - not more frequent but what they contained tore at the two of them, made them angry. Perhaps that was the purpose: to make them so furious that they'd lose all sense. However, they were soldiers. They'd survived the ruin of their planet. They were not about to start running from dreams or letting those images drive them mad. The Scorpions were making a bit mistake if they thought the Biker Mice from Mars were pushovers like little kids.

'We won't help Throttle by sitting here, bro.' Vincent hunkered down under the thick tree trunk he'd been leaning against. 'I say let's wait for nightfall, then sneak in.'

Modo smiled at him, remembering that time in Detroit when Charlie had given Vincent the sharp edge of her tongue over rescuing her old pal Jack McCyber.

'Sneak indeed…'

Vincent winked at him. That was the first smile he'd seen on the big fella's face in a week.

'This place smells funny,' Modo remarked, sniffing the nighttime air of this very weird city which looked like no city he knew of on Earth or Mars. This place had no streets as they would define such things. No street signs to tell you where you were. No streetlights. Instead the moon provided the nightly illumination. That was one powerful moon - and the sun too since the former reflected the light of the latter. There were no highways either. It all was just so… bizarre.

'Nothing can smell worse than Plutark,' Vincent disagreed. This uncanny locality had a sort of a dry empty smell to it. It did not make him gag like any place Plutarkian would have. It did not want to make him vomit and trash it. He only wished to find his bro and get the hell outta dodge.

'Mmm…' Modo hummed, his eye restlessly observing the rooftops of the neighbouring buildings. His sixth sense was itching. He would have scratched himself but… 'We haven't seen anyone. Nothing is stirring. It's like this city is empty.'

'Spooky,' Vincent remarked, straining his ears for any sound out of the ordinary. Only there was nothing extraordinary. Just a silent apparently empty bunch of buildings. Just what in blazes was happening here?

'They're here,' the scout reported quietly, turning towards his leader. 'In the northern part of the city.'

'Good.' The dark-clad Scorpion Leader addressed his team. 'Encircle them. Move in. Capture them. Don't allow them to fight you. According to the Plutarkian Limburger, they are old hands at martial arts. Be ready for anything. But most importantly: take them alive, don't hurt them more than necessary.'

His orders were not to be disobeyed - upon pain of instant death. Since his team valued their exoskeletons and their lives, they would do as told. Not only their lives but their promotions depended on exact execution of their task.

'Hey, bro! Di'ya see that?' Modo whispered, ducking back around the corner of a narrow building. 'What was that thing?'

Vincent shook his head. How he wished he had his laser gun now. He'd have blasted that creature to kingdom come.

'I think the hunt's just turned, bro,' he remarked, twisting his head to look behind them down the two-lane alley. 'He's hunting us.'

'He can't be alone.'

'He isn't,' Vincent growled, cracking his knuckles and rolling his stiffened shoulders. Finally a fight, mano-a-mano. Just the way he liked it. 'Come on, you damn bug. Warm me up.'

Modo glanced over his bro's shoulder and saw two creepy creatures, neither Scorpion nor bipedal slinking down the alleyway, their mouth parts clicking hungrily. His eye lit up. This once he was in total accord with Vincent: a knuckle fight is what he needed too, if only to vent all his frustrations.

A soft whirr of something passing close by his face made him turn around, back to back with Vincent (just like old times on Mars). In the mouth of the alley were three more of those creeps with a net. A net! Really! He wasn't no dumb fish! He laughed, firing off two blasts which passed through the net. He didn't want to destroy it. He just wanted to make those idiots jump a little.

They did. Leaping aside they cast the net at him. It looked heavy - was it metallic? It was shiny - metal or silk? Not that it mattered. He grabbed Vincent and pushed him towards the opposite wall, flattening himself against it too. The heavy mesh net missed them both by inches…

… but the hair-thin poison missiles didn't.

Clapping his hand to his neck Modo roared in rage even as his body was paralysed by the fast-acting solution the needle injected into his body. His legs buckled and he fell hard against Vincent, who was clawing at his neck trying to get the paralyzing missile out and only digging it in deeper.

'B-bro?' Modo croaked, his vision darkening fast. His tongue barely moved forming that one syllable. Shadows fell over him as the Scorpion squad approached them carefully, hissing between themselves. He would have liked to lash out but even his bionic arm was useless now. He could not command it, could not control it. He was helpless - like that time in Karbunkle's lab. A helpless lab Mouse…

Chapter 8

Limburger drummed his fingers on the smooth metal tabletop. Enough was enough. Something had to be done about that insane psycho Brie. His behaviour was completely out of bounds. It was as if he had forgotten their accord. His Doom Rangers were challenging his own goons. BRIE was challenging HIM in public!

His fist smacked the table in irritation. There had to be away to neutralize Brie and ensure his own ascendant star once more. Lord Camembert was giving him those nasty looks again: Brie must have told him something compromising. That did not bode well for his future career.

But how to spike Brie's wheel?

The dark-coloured door of his office opened with a soft hiss and a Scorpion floated in, something in its hands. Limburger put on a neutral, disinterested expression.

'Come in, please,' he invited, a little sarcastically. These Scorpions really had few manners. Well, they WERE spies…

'These are for you, Mr. Limburger,' the Scorpion secretary deposited a scorpion-shaped basket on to the table. Limburger glanced at it, then at the servitor.

'What is the meaning of this?' he asked, keeping his voice polite as curiosity and a certain revulsion snaked their way down his spine. Scorpions giving out gifts? What's next? A Scorpion candy party?

'My Commander is very much pleased with the information you provided about those Biker Mice, Mr. Limburger. It has helped him to capture them.'

For a split second, Limburger simply stared.

Then his face broke out into one of those unctuous smiles that he reserved for those superiors that he despised.

'Oh, I am ever so glad to have been of some little assistance. Please convey my gratitude to your Commander for this most generous gift.' Whatever it was he would open it later. He had no idea what kinds of gifts Scorpions considered 'safe'. 'Did I hear you correctly? Your Commander has been successful in hunting down those wretched rodents?'

'Yes,' the Scorpion secretary nodded its insectoid head on a humanoid body - a creepy combination really. How could it look at itself in a mirror? Did it even? 'They were seized in a northern part of the city. No doubt trying to sneak in and free their comrade.'

'Indeed. As to that, I hope you did not place them all in the same cell…' he remarked, taking a couple of steps around the table and glancing out of the window at the lightening day. 'They are best friends, They read each other's minds. They are capable of anything as a unit, as a team… even, dare I say it, a prison break…'

'Our security measures are more than enough to ensure that they will stay put, Mr. Limburger,' the Scorpion reproved him.

The obese Plutarkian bit his lip, turning his back on the Scorpion underling. His fishing for useful information had not succeeded. No matter. He'd find out another way. Perhaps there was a way of derailing Brie.

'While I myself am no friend to these nefarious rodents, I have received intelligence that there are some who would attempt to break them out.'

A moment's silence and then soft hissing that it took Limburger a minute to understand as laughter. Apparently these relatives of arachnids had a sense of humour.

'Truly?' the insect agent remarked after gaining control of its mirth. 'That would be insanity. Who would be mad enough to even conceive of such a thing?'

'Who indeed?' Limburger murmured, chuckling and half-turning from the agent to the window.

The worm had been taken, hook, line, and sinker.

Modo's head was pounding hard. He rubbed the back of it with his large hand.

'O man…'

He spat: there was some disgusting taste in his mouth. What had crawled in there and died?

He opened his eye wide, shook his aching head, and little by little sat up.

'Vin?' he called out into the total darkness. 'You ok, buddy?' His voice came out rough, uneven. He worked his throat to clear it. 'Vin? Talk to me.'

There was a soft moan to his right.

'O what the hell….?' Vincent sounded confused.

'This don't look like no hellhole I ever saw,' Modo observed, waving his hand in front of his face. He knew his hand was moving only because of its connection to the rest of him. He was not able to see squat. Pitch black did not describe this.

A whisper of a sound next to him.

'O bummer…' Vincent hissed as if in pain. His mouth was dry as dust. 'Who turned off the light….'

'Dunno but… I can make some.'

Without waiting for a reply, he lifted his bionic arm and fired off two blasts which struck the ceiling and bounced off, heating up the ceiling and wall tiles. He had not adjusted the setting for a less heated laser blast. Their eyes were seared by the sudden flash of white light. They had to squint and let a few moments pass in adapting to the unexpected rush of light sensations on their retinas.

And when their vision did resolve itself…

'THROTTLE?!' Vincent croaked, jaw dropping and eyes now saucer size.

'Bro!' Modo's equally surprised, stunned, exclamation came almost at the same time.

What greeted them on the other side of the cell was indeed their friend, their leader, curled up into a shivering ball of ache. Modo saw more scars and lacerations and bruising on him than he'd ever seen before. How was Throttle even able to function?

Vincent was already scuttling across the metal floor - which was spotted in places with what Modo knew was blood (o those Scorps were gonna pay for this!) and other less salutary things - his hand put out to take Throttle's elbow.

'Throttle? Bro? Talk to us,' Vincent pleaded, his normally loud voice hushed in shock, plain and simple. 'It's me Vinnie…' He glanced uncertainly behind him at Modo, who came to a stop on his knees, hovering beside him. 'The big fella is here too…' He looked so young just now that Modo had to swallow hard: his expression of utter disbelief reminded him of Vic too much.

Throttle could not believe his ears. Must be dreaming. Right?... Then hands were helping him sit up, his body flinching - but these were the furry hands of his two bros - bros who'd never leave him behind.

'V-Vin…' he whispered, sandwiched between two warm solid Martian macho Mice bodies. He felt better already. 'W… How….' He sounded incoherent, breathing hard from just being sat up (or was it set up?) but they seemed to understand.

'We came a-lookin', bro,' Vincent informed him, attempting pretty hard NOT to let his shock drip into his voice. Modo did not blame him, neither did Throttle. He must look a total wreck of a Mouse. 'You didn't leave an address so we had to ask those insectoid bozos to point us in the right direction.'

There were tears on Throttle's face, and Modo for one was not sure if that was just from the sudden lighting up of this cell.

'So, we… we…' Damn, it was hard to speak properly given the damage done to his body. 'Break out?'

'Not a bad suggestion, bro.' Modo scratched his chin. He better not have fleas, not now. 'Plan?' That would give them something to think and talk about besides the sad state of their bro's health.

'Excuse me, gents.' Vincent had been scanning their metal cell (looking anywhere but at Throttle). 'But does anyone see a door?'

"There is no door to your cell,'' Throttle whispered, eyes closing, his hands gripping his knees hard, a cold dread making him shiver.

'What was that, bro?' Modo cocked one ear. 'No door here?'

Throttle's head bounced side to side.

'No… no door…' He clamped his mouth shut as if biting down on some memory he found painful, unpleasant.

'If Modo the Divine can make light, then what is a simple door?'

Throttle couldn't help it: he snorted, mouth curving up, laughter being a bit difficult just now. Modo rolled his one eye: trust Vincent to break the tension, his way of dealing with a shocking situation.

'Modo the Divine…'

'I have a way with words right?' Vincent smiled irreverently at his grey-furred friend.

'You have too many words. They don't fit in your mouth, bro.' Modo grinned at him.

'That's why I share them, big fella. Like the good friend that I am.'

Ah, twas good (soothing, really) to hear his bros' banter again. It meant all was right with the world now. Well, almost. They still needed some scheme to extricate themselves from this place.

'So uh.. Any BRIGHT ideas?' he asked in a breathy voice.

'Well, you divinityship?' Vincent looked over at Modo.

'Divinity-what? Man… you must be running out of words.' Modo nudged him playfully.

'You swept em all up, bro, with those divine whiskers of yours,' Vincent nudged him in turn, eyes glinting with merriment.

'Bros… a little focus here..' Throttle rolled his head, looking from one to the other of his bros, his family - the only one he had left now. 'I am waiting for you two divinities to use your godly powers to effect our escape.' Talking was easier now that he'd limbered up his little-used vocal cords. That and the presence of his friends gave him hope: this wasn't the first time they'd been in an impossible spot.

Vincent scratched his ear.

'Well, I defer to my more puissant elder here…'

'Who you calling old, you mouseling?' Modo rumbled at him, not really angry but just playing along.

'Puissant, Vincent? That's a mouthful.' Throttle was genuinely surprised. Had Vincent been reading behind their backs (and not Biker Babes from Baltimore either)?

'Did I say 'old'?' Vincent waved his hand dismissively. 'No, I meant venerable.'

Modo harrumphed.

'You…'

'My my, Vincent, you been getting an education while we weren't looking?' Throttle wondered, one eyebrow raised.

'He HAS been seeing a lot of Charlie, you know,' Modo suggested, giving his younger bro a sly wink and having the satisfaction of watching Vincent blush. 'I think it's rubbing off…'

Vincent shook his head as his friends chuckled at their own witticisms.

'O you're jealous,' he said crossly - and then had to catch Throttle before the brown-furred Mouse's head hit the floor. 'Whoa, bro!'

'So… much… ex… cite… ment…' Throttle breathed, dizzy. He'd almost forgotten that his bruised body was not quite up to snuff. 'Need… rest…'

'No prob, bro,' Modo assured him, squeezing his arm which felt thinner. Throttle had lost weight. He looked and felt hollow somehow. Like he'd drift away on a puff of wind. 'We'll be here.'

As Throttle sank away into oblivion, his two friends stared at each other over his supine form with only one question on their minds: how the hell were they going to get out of this?

Chapter 9

'I would suggest you do as you're told,' the humanoid insect buzzed less than emotionally, its dead cold eyes glancing from one Mouse to the other without any sort of care, interest, or concern. 'Otherwise, your friend over there will be subject to another 'therapy' session.' Its unconcern was so strong that had it been a missile it'd have knocked them across the cell, probably further.

The two tall Mice exchanged resigned hard looks. They remembered the last time they'd refused to follow the insectoid creep's orders. Throttle had disappeared - only to be returned three quarters unalive. They'd had to work hard and fast to keep him from sinking completely: they'd had to remember all those practical battlefield med skills, the ones that were useful in the middle of a shitstorm. And this one was fucker of a real-ass shitstorm.

'Guys.' Throttle's voice was a soft whisper with a rattle at the end of it. He was still not quite out of it - and not getting better either. 'Go… Don't… Don't worry…. About me.'

That was the one thing they couldn't do. Not worrying was not on the radar. They had to work out some plan quickly, before their minds turned traitor completely. These days (at least they both hoped they were only days, not weeks) the dreams, visions (illusions?) kept getting more realistic, more disturbing. Vincent was sure that he had seen Charlie being snatched from the streets of Chicago by the Scorpion operatives. Modo was equally certain that his dead brother Viktor was among the living.

And now added to that were the Games. The Games that made what had happened to them in the Pits look like Sunday kiddie sandbox play. The kinds of Games that tested their fighting abilities, their stamina, their resilience. The deadly no holds barred kind of Games where survival was their only option - if they ever hoped to get out of here alive. The kind of Games where the survival of the fittest mind was as vital as that of the fittest body. Because sometimes, it was not other athletes they were fighting but illusions out of their own past and present. Vincent had already faced 'Charlie' (more than once), who had turned out to be a shapeshifting Scorpion. Modo had watched his younger fellow Freedom Fighter go from shocked surprise of an innocent child to the sangfroid of the hard nosed scrapper he'd been on Mars. That merry gleam of goofiness in his eyes had been replaced by a flat deadly stare of the seasoned soldier that he was.

And Modo had begun to wonder: just how had the Scorpions found out about Charlie? About their fighting prowess? About their past? The single answer to these questions did not please him. Apparently someone had ratted on them - and he had a rather good idea who that may have been. If he ever got his hands on that stinking motherfucker of an obese Plutarkian, he was going to make mincemeat out of him!

At least he was not facing 'Charlie' this time.

Small mercies but what the hell… he was gonna take 'em.

Grabbing a handful of the gritty coarse sand of the arena he flung it with crisp precision into the single eye of his monstrous opponent, distracting it enough for the tip of his boot to smash into its oversized ear on the side of its misshapen head. Stunned, the thing reeled - towards Modo, who was ready with the ultra-sharp metal knife he'd taken off an already dead monstrosity that bled out an amber-coloured ocher instead of blood. One almost gentle swipe of the thinner than razor blade, and another corpse was added to the growing tally. The two of them were an army unto themselves…

Thin strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his. Without even thinking about it, he reverse-headbutted the whatever it was - assuming it had a head to butt, that is, which was not a certainty since some of their opponents had not had heads in the strict sense of the word. This time his hunch was right on. There was a sharp squeal of pain and then the stranglehold loosened up enough for him to slip through, turn around, and smash his cestus-reinforced fist right smack into the middle of the thing's face. Bone cracked, gave, and the ugly-ass critter dropped like a stone, with a soft puff of sand. It was dead before it hit the ground - bone driven straight into its brain.

'That the best you got, you useless scorch-tails?' Vincent taunted the watching Scorpion dignitaries, among whom he saw the very familiar obese form of Limburger and the dimwit Brie from Detroit. Oh, how his hands itched to pound those two into dust!

Dry laughter rang around the arena, a note of approval in it. Really irritating…

'O no, Mouse,' the sibilant whisper ruffled his mind. 'These were just appetizers… to share…' One part of the arena floor rose up, revealing a large dark cavity.

'O mama,' Modo muttered beside him. 'I don't like the looks of that.'

Neither did Vincent. Dark holes usually meant more trouble, bigger problems, meaner enemies. The white Mouse did not like it - he loved challenges like this. He lived for such exhilaration. His adrenaline shot way off his Rush-meter as the underbelly of the arena revealed its enormous hideous gift: two spiders, sixteen legs between them, hairy, multiple eyes glinting flatly, with four armed riders on each who held bazookas and laser rifles. Now this was gonna be a real fight!

'We're kinda underdressed for this party, bro,' Modo murmured, tensing for a moment. Giant spiders with nasty riders were not his area of expertise. Not that he was afraid - such things as fear had ceased to matter to him a long time ago.

'Well then let's hit the dance floor, bro,' Vincent replied, all of his Martian Mouse warrior senses at their fullest gauge: this was gonna be real fun! 'Undress em!'

'That's the kind of jam I like!' Modo grinned, a hard twist of his lips, his remaining eye flaring red. 'Sweet and deadly!'

Limburger could have told them how this would end. But he didn't. The Scorpions were not the best of listeners and he was not going to volunteer information that they didn't ask for. Let them find out for themselves just what these Mice were truly capable of. They made do with what was at hand. They were hard practical realists. They had survived a major destructive war on their planet. They had even escaped Dr. Karbunkle and his experiments. They unquestionably were unpredictable - which in a perverse way made them predictable: one knew to expect surprises which one could not possibly plan for.

Limburger had seen it all before.

And kept silent.

He would watch and bide his time.

Because he had a plan.

A plan to put the Biker Mice forever in his debt.

'No guns.'

'No bikes.'

The two Martian heroes smirked hard at each other, fur bristling, and their minds just tingling in anticipation. This was going to be one hell of a rousing party!

'No problem.'

'Cover me, bro,' Vincent threw over his shoulder as he made for the concrete wall of the arena. He had a daring plan, a dangerous plan - a Vincent Van Spiderhunter kind of plan guaranteed to make things interesting - and combustible.

Modo nodded grimly as he started firing at the lead spider's eyes to distract it from the white mouse who was picking up speed approaching the wall - and running along it to gain height. He leapt off near the top, flares already lit. With a mocking laugh he threw them at the spider riders whose rifles were less than effective against a moving target that never stood still. The flares scorched the spider's back, igniting the hair. The spider let out a low screech and twisted a little bit - which allowed Modo's blast to hit one of the riders square in the chest and blow him down off the spider's back. One down, three to go, and Vincent had things well in hand. He'd already kicked one of the remaining nasties in the head and stolen the laser rifle.

'Haha! Eat dirt!' he howled gleefully, unleashing the lasers point blank. Three smoked nasties dropped to the sand to be squished by the now rampaging spider. Vincent used the 'borrowed' laser rifle to set more of the spider hair on fire. Killing it would be no fun - let it smash and crash this arena first. Maybe it would even squash Limburger and Brie - but perhaps that was too much to hope for. O well…

'One dine-in. One to go,' Modo muttered just evading the laser blast from the second spider riders. From one knee, he fired off a few reply bursts from his bionic arm, not the highest setting but just enough to annoy those spider riding scum. That served as adequate distraction for Vincent to let them know of his own presence.

'Hi fellas!'

More laser sizzles. More maddened spider on fire. More smoked snacks.

'Bye fellas!'

Both burning now, shrieking in pain and discomfort, the two spiders collided, waving their mandibles and legs. There were dry snaps as the tangled limbs began to crack. The spiders reeled apart and then came back together - like two drunks trying to find support after having one too many shots of tequila.

The two mice, ocher-covered, breathing hard but still alert for unexpected surprises, watched from a safer distance, the ground shaking under them.

'You gotta admit,' Vincent remarked, wiping his grimy mask (good thing it did not stain or scratch at all). 'The difficulty level this time was impressive.'

'Yeah,' Modo agreed. 'It keeps getting more difficult.'

'Like a video game.'

'Only this video game ain't over.'

''Cuz we aint dead!' Vincent's smile combined rapture and hardcore relentlessness. He was a wild child, the proof being not so much in the pudding but in his combative flair and revelling.

'How many lives do you figure we still have?'

'Ask the cats.' Modo pointed at the gates on the far end, beyond the smoking hulks of the dead spiders, from which now issued out cat-like creatures that he was sure were shapeshifting Scorpions. There was a certain lack of truly feline movement that gave the insects away. They did not quite fit into the feline form - or they had not bothered to correct that little glitch.

Vincent flexed his fingers, grimly happy.

'Alright, the party continues,' he practically crooned.

Modo rolled his shoulders. He still had some fight left in him - he simply did not revel in it the way Vinman did.

'Biker Mice,' the leading cat-like creature spoke. It was not purring like a cat, nor hissing like a Scorpion. It was a teeth-grating combination of the two. 'Once again you triumph.' It sounded disappointed, the usual reaction of their enemies to them not dying. It was almost becoming comical.

'O mama, sounds like another level of difficulty is coming up,' Modo shook his head.

'Like extra hard Scorpion perhaps?' Vincent it seemed was eager for more action. He had one hell of a party drive.

The cats slunk closer, eyes flat and hungry-looking. Vincent really wanted to sneeze - his cat allergies were coming out even though these were not real cats. His body did not seem to care for that though: a cat was a cat was a cat. He clamped his teeth shut. He was not going to give them the satisfaction of watching him snuffle - he had a hero status to maintain, even here. They had to keep on thinking that neither he nor his bros were expendable, weak. Otherwise they'd never make it out of here.

'I trust you enjoyed watching your friends, eh, Mouse?' that same detested whisper came from close to his ear. He did not snarl, much as he wanted to. Control. He had to maintain control. These insectoid scum were good at exploiting weaknesses and he was not about to give them any more. They already knew too much about him and his bros, no doubt from that cheesy bastard Limburger. That one had it coming to him big time - once they broke out of here.

'What do you think should be done now?'

A vague question that disquieted him. Done with them? Or done to them? These riddles were starting to frankly irritate him.

'Their performance was masterful, gold caliber,' the Scorpion went on, the sibilant spikes of its voice driving deep into his skull. 'Maybe they deserve a rest, a break… what do you think, my brave Martian hero?' Its tone had sunk lower, almost caressing his spine. The last word sounded like an insult, a mockery - deliberately so, he was pretty certain. A provocation - only he was past all provoking now. He was a Martian Mouse. He was cunning…

'You pathetic stinking stinging reptile, us Martian macho Mice are not gold caliber.' His voice was a low grinding growl. 'We're platinum grade. Get it, moronic insect?'

The Scorpion giggled, admiring the pluck of these Mice. They were most delectable. Keeping them alive definitely made better sense - and better entertainment.

'O very good, Mouse,' it purred admiringly. 'Very good.' Its regard returned to the screen where the two Martian Mice faced off against the 'cats'. It seemed to think for a moment. 'Ask and you shall receive.' There was a sweetly decisive tone to its words. You will get your platinum grade…'

Chapter 10

'Think on it, dear rodentia.'

The three Mice stared at each other as Limburger's voice died away.

'Excuse me…' Vincent went first.

'..But was that…" Modo picked up.

'...The Big Cheese?' Throttle finished.

'And did he…' Vincent continued.

'...Just offer us…' Modo cut in.

'...A way out?' Throttle closed.

'Just what stinkin game is he playing now?' Modo added grimly. That disgustingly fat Plutarkian lackey was starting to really annoy him - but not worry him as much as the Scorpions, who were much more deadly and cold-blooded than any fish.

'He mentioned Brie and his Doom Rangers,' Throttle remarked, leaning back against the wall. This was one of his better days - after Scorpion 'medical treatment', that is. That made him suspicious. His health clearly was important to them - right before they walked all over him once more. So something was up. And he didn't think it boded well for him - for all of them.

'Something about killing us…' Vincent muttered, rubbing his knuckles with the all-too-familiar expectant gleam of adrenaline in his eyes.

'Why would that stinkin fish warn us about that insane wacko?' Modo wanted to know. That really bothered him. 'Limburger ain't no philanthropist.'

'No… He ain't from Philly…'

'No brotherly love lost there,' Throttle chuckled, scratching his chin. 'They are rivals. Always trying to get one up on each other.'

Modo shifted his position, tucking one leg in. The cold floor was not exactly made for mouse-comfort, and his bruised body was not in top shape just now.

'O those dirty Plutarkians!' Vincent shook his head, one elbow resting on his knee.

'So, the question is,' Throttle brought the discussion back on track. 'Is Limburger trying to use us to get at Brie?'

'That sounds like him,' Modo said in disgust. 'We are being used and abused.'

'I am tempted to take him up on his offer,' Vincent offered. 'Since we don't have any other plan of vacating these premises.'

'Yeah…' Modo sort of agreed, reluctantly. They did need help: that fact was inescapable. Given that they were under almost constant surveillance - discovered thanks to Vincent's restlessness - attempting a breakout on their own would sure as hell land them ALL in those 'therapy' sessions.

'But accepting Limburger….' Modo made a face. 'Really?'

Throttle had been tapping his lip with one finger. He felt more alert, more like the Mouse he'd been before this ordeal. His mind needed tasks, work to do. Work that kept him away from distracting thoughts and worries. Like his bros. Both of them gave him concern just now. Modo had become more silent than usual, his eyes filled with a hidden pain which he didn't share. Vincent's whole body language indicated that there was something bothering him - not their captivity but something else. And his white-furred bro was not telling. And that was not usual Vincent behaviour. Vincent was as different from Modo as day from night.

'We know there is an underhanded ploy behind his offer,' he suggested to his friends. 'We can figure it out once we're out of here. That is priority number one.'

Nods all around: that went without saying. Stuck here they were no use - and slowly going insane. Ending up like Brie was not in their game plan.

'And… I think for once Limburger and us share certain sentiments.'

Three eyes widened, gaping.

'What?!'

'We ain't got nothing in common with that scale-slick!' Modo objected strongly.

'Ah, but did you hear his voice, Modo?' Throttle took off his specs for a moment to massage his eyes. Sometimes these bionic ones chafed - in more ways than one. 'He is not so sure of himself here. Not his turf. Not his kind of villains.' He looked from one to the other of his best buddies. 'He is afraid,' he whispered, leaning in. 'The Scorpions make him uneasy. Really uneasy.'

'That's our leverage, eh?' Vincent's smirk was a nasty one. He really wanted to nail that stinking fish's tail to a wall. If not for him, they'd never have ended up here in the first place.

'I like me some blackmail in the morning,' Modo crooned, his metal fingers squeezing into a fist.

'Then we're agreed.' Throttle held out his hands. With a quick conspiratorial glance at his youngest bro, Modo took one. Vincent, grinning, took the other. All of them shared an unyielding Martian Mouse stare. 'Let there be rock.'

He knew that they would take it. They had no choice at all. Unless they wanted to die, that is. And one thing he knew about the three verminous thorns in his side - suicidal they were not. He would help them and they would help him deal with Brie - not to mention owe him for saving their miserable skins. That was the beauty of his plan: two birds with one stone. Well, correction: one lunatic fish with delusions of grandeur and three heroically-minded mice.

Lawrence Limburger sipped his own mineral water and smiled into the darkness of his room. Let Lord Camembert deal with the Scorpions if he was so minded. Lawrence Limburger wanted no part of that. He'd had enough of the bizarre rituals, the almost-erotic habits, and the disconcerting espionage of their 'allies'. How did those Mice put it? Tailbail? No… cowa… No, that wasn't it…

'Ah… Time to blow this joint…' His chuckle shook his entire obese body. 'Yes, indeed. Time to get explosive.'

So now, for phase two of his plan: setting up Brie..

'WHAT!' Brie screeched, almost salivating in his fury, jumping up and down, his pudgy figure quaking. 'I never…'

'Please, do not try my patience,' the Scorpion operative, in strict police uniform which had never seen dirt, lint, or hair, cut him off coldly. 'Your men were found trying to break into the prisoners' cell. With explosives.'

WIES! ALL WIES!" Brie was bouncing all over the room, like a basketball, his eyes blazing hate, disbelief, and fear, his L's becoming W's. Watching his enemies get worked over by the Scorpions was one thing, a pleasure. Being the object of their 'tender' attentions had never been in his plans. 'It's that useless fatso Limburger! He set me uuuuuup!' he howled, shaking his fists.

'You surely do not expect me to believe that, do you, Mr. Brie?' There was something insidiously cold and mocking in that o-so-polite address. Brie stopped in his tracks. Scorpions had no sense of humour at all. They took everything literally: if they had seen his Doom Rangers, they they had seen his Doom Rangers. The possibility that it had been Limburger's goons did not appear to figure at all.

And now HE, the Genius of Plutark, who had been trying to set up Limburger, had been one-upped by that despicable talentless moron from Chicago.

He howled his defeat and eternal hate to the ceiling, beating the floor with both fists, chomping, froth spilling from his mostly-toothless mouth.

'O Wimp-burger,' he growled as he was cuffed and dragged away, his eyes shining with hate. 'You will pay for this. I promise you THAT!'

Using Brie's own Doom Rangers to frame him had proved to be most delicious. He'd fed them some misinformation since Dr. Karbunkle had hacked into the Scorpion communication system. He'd had to be careful to keep his attempts to reach the Mice and the Doom Rangers minimal to avoid notice. His messages therefore had had to be exact, precise, short, clear. Beating about the bush was useless on this planet anyway: the Scorpions might hide their true feelings and thoughts at all times but when some sort of interaction was called for, the speed and directness were amazingly quick. Scorpions got to the point. Limburger snorted at his own wittiness. Get to the point indeed…

Which reminded him.

It was time for his own point-making.

Now that the Scorpions were focused on Brie and his Doom Rangers, they had left the Mice more or less alone. The three vermin were receiving rather special treatment now: food, drink, specially designed to bring them to top form. They were going to be the star attractions of the last day of the Olympics - at Lord Camembert's suggestion (which of course had been recommended ever so carefully by himself, Lawrence Limburger). He wanted his three opponents to be in top shape to effect his and their own escape. Half-dead they were no use to him.

'The show must go on,' he murmured. 'On to phase three.'

Chapter 11

'I think, bros,' Throttle said, looking at the half-eaten leg of chicken (how the hell did the Scorpions know about CHICKEN!?) in his hand. 'I think we're being set up.'

'You mean fed up,' Vincent remarked, with a soft belch. He had no problem eating - not with Modo feeding him morsels.

'Eat up, Vinman.' Modo grinned at him, holding out yet another piece of bread and butter. 'You're a growing mouse.'

'Careful, Modo,' Throttle warned him, his own lips twitching. 'His HEAD is already big enough... ' He waved one hand in front of his nose. 'And remember he ain't potty-trained.'

Modo snorted, and then they all fell about laughing, remembering Vincent's baby picture which Charlie had found in his wallet. Let the Scorpions figure THIS out!

'O stuff it!' Vincent groused, throwing his food-stained hands up.

'You surrender, Vin?' Throttle asked him, miming a search for handcuffs.

'No, I think he wants stuffed turkey,' Modo cut in, wiping his tearing eye. Here they were in a deadly situation, and in true Martian Mouse Freedom Fighting tradition they were mocking death (and Scorpions) for all it was worth.

'Well, it ain't Christmas, Vincent,' Throttle said, wiping his mouth. 'You're gonna have to wait.'

'I want no presents from you two,' Vincent told them both, pointing with his finger first at one, then the other of his friends. 'You'd probably…'

'... Give you a pot..'

'... of coal…'

Vincent huffed, exasperated, slamming his palms down on his thighs.

'Ah, shut it!'

'But seriously.' Throttle cleaned his hands on a napkin, his smile dying away.

'This is like lambs…' Modo growled, his own mirth suddenly swiped away.

'Mice, bro. Mice.' Vincent cut in, irrepressible as ever.

'... to slaughter…'

There was a moment of full silence with the three Martian buddies exchanging hard looks.

'So, we take it,' Vincent spoke at last.

'Yeah, I hate fighting on an empty stomach,' Modo seconded it like the practical soldier he was.

'We need our strength, yea,' Throttle agreed, nodding. 'So eat up, laddies,' he drawled with a perfect Scots accent.

'Cuz we got us a fight for…'

'FREEEEEEDOOOOM!' Vincent sang out, raising his face towards the ceiling.

'OW!' Modo clapped his hands over his ears. 'Dude, really….!'

'Where's the bagpipes when you need em?' Throttle shook his head.

'We got em right here,' Modo indicated Vincent, who flashed him one of his cheeky grins. 'Walking, wailing, tail-whippin pipes.'

'Why thank you, brother,' Vincent stood up and bowed floridly. 'I had no idea you cared.'

'Modo, you better stop it.' Throttle was trying really hard to regain some sort of control: his bros' humour was unstoppable. 'His head is about to explode - and I just ate.'

'Run and hide!' Modo scooted backwards, as if afraid of the incipient explosion - or two.

'Guys! Guys! Really…' Throttle put his hands up. 'We honestly need us a plan…'

'You mean post-Limburger?' Modo asked, rejoining the little circle they made.

'That's the easy part,' Vincent began counting off on his fingers. 'One, we get back to Chi-town. Two, we trash Limburger Tower and everybody - and everything - in it. Three, we go out for dogs and root beer.' He dusted his hands. 'Done deal.'

The two older Biker Mice rolled their eyes at each other. That was typical Vincent: rash, brash, three-pointer.

'I'm in,' Modo voted.

'Me too.' Throttle raised his hand up. 'And now…'

'... back to eats,' their white-furred young bro said with gusto.

'Are you ready, bros?' Throttle grinned. At LAST a righteous fight, a right brawl. Man, he had needed this!

'It's tail whippin time!' Vincent's voice carried all over the arena. EVERYONE heard that.

'Time to give em all a nervous shakedown,' Modo smirked, stroking his metal forearm. He had it all set, programmed. All he needed now was a reason. 'Let's take this town and turn it around!'

'Yea! Let's ROLL!'

Vincent was more than ready. He was just about to pop: his adrenaline was already at five hundred and fifty percent...

… When the Scorpion tanks rolled out of the far gate, six of them, new, shiny, composite tails up and stingers out. The watching crowd went wild - Scorpion-style wild: a lot of hissing and clicking and skittering. The only voices as such came from the Plutarkians - and nothing kind from that contingent.

'Well well… lookie here, boys….' Throttle purred, Nuke Knucks fired up. 'The spidies finally crawling out of their holes.'

'Biker Mice from Mars,' rang out over the PA system and silence fell, an expectant hush preceding a storm. 'As part of our closing ceremonies, you have been selected to be the last participants of these Intergalactic Olympics.' More applause, more hissing. The three Mice were really beginning to detest that. 'For those about to die, we salute you.' A dark pleasure filled those final words, an indifferent certainty of their demise.

'Don't count your Mice just yet, pal,' Modo grunted.

'Annihilate them!' the Scorpion PA announcer whispered with cold glee.

'Death! Death!' went all around the stadium as the Scorpion tanks lit up, cannons pointing at the three lone Mice who grinned at one another.

'Shall we begin, gentlemen?' Vincent invited.

Damn those Scorpions! They had ruined his plan - partially. He had wanted to spirit the Mice out before this. And then some Scorpion bureaucrat had decided that the Mice would make a nice snack before bedtime. O how he hated these constant obstacles to phase three!

Limburger drummed his fingers on the armrest of his seat, fuming. He had told Dr. Karbunkle to be ready - just in case. He was aware that these three Biker Mice were survivors, no pushovers. How well he knew THAT!

Perhaps, just perhaps, he should let them die. After all, why bring them back to Earth? They'd only spoil his plans - as usual.

'Decisions, decisions,' he muttered, watching moodily as the six Scorpion-shaped tanks advanced on their prey. Well, prey was a relative term, wasn't it?

Chapter 12

'Vincent! Catch!' Throttle tossed the bazooka (provided by one of the now dead some-things) to him. Without so much as a word, without even stopping, Vincent fired it right at the incoming tank's front, which exploded in a flaming conus of metal and electronic debris that flew out over the spectators who oohed and aahed, some in terror, some in excitement. The rest of the now smashed up machine dropped, the remaining legs and tail twitching spasmodically. Through the acrid black smoke another of the currently four Scorpion tanks appeared, firing off small explosives designed to make their opponents jump for cover. Which suited the three Mice just fine: they needed to regroup a bit.

'Modo, distract that thing!' Throttle called, coughing slightly from the oily stench rising over the stadium expanse. 'Vin and me will tackle it!'

Modo nodded, popped up from behind the scorched and twisted wreckage of a white metal tail. Short, staccato blasts from his arm cannon did not rock it but that was not the point. The goal was to focus its attention on Modo while the two of them got on top of it.

'Watch that stinger, Vinnie!' the brown-furred general warned his younger bro who nodded curtly, his eyes grim and mouth tight. This was no time for goofing. Their skins really were on the line here.

Running in between two of the rear legs Vincent lit two flares and stuck them into the holes left by the joins of its protective plates. Moving quickly to the other side where Throttle was in place, he touched off his bro's proffered leg-up to end up on the back of the rumbling machine. Grabbing hold of one of the gun ports he let his tail drop to his bro who wasted little time in joining him up top.

'Those flares will go off in about twenty secs, bro.'

'That's enough time for us to blind it. The eyes are the sensors.'

Throttle had figured that out after one of the tanks had tracked his motion with uncanny precision. He'd almost gotten his tail fried.

Stepping lightly - not that the Scorpion tank noticed them in any way - the two furred Freedom Fighters approached the glowing eyes. Kneeling, Throttle looked over at Vincent.

'One.' He grinned, powering up his Nuke Knucks.

'Two.' Vincent smirked, cocked and ready, facemask lit by the fires of the burning hulks.

'Three!' they said together, smashing their fists - one glowing with the power of the Nuke Knucks - clear through the glass covering. Shards, wire, sizzling electricity - and then they were high-tailing it off the screeching metal hunk which suddenly was blind, literally. It could not see its targets. It fired - off-target, the shot glancing off one roof stanchion and blowing out a set of lights.

The stadium was quiet now, in shock. Three of the tanks had been disabled, their auxiliary support decimated. The three Mice were still alive and kicking. Kicking major ass…

'These Mice…' the Commander of the Scorpion Secret Service smiled, stroking his long chin. 'They have passed all our tests so far.' He leaned forward in his tall cold stone chair. 'The brown one has retained his grip on his mind, despite our best efforts. His one-eyed associate has proven to be as resilient, his guilt and grief are habitual…' He paused, his half-lidded eyes focusing on the last one, the white mouse with the half-facemask. 'This one though…. He is the weak link. The most malleable one…' His thin lips pulled back into a semblance of a darkly triumphant smile. 'His feelings for that human female make him most vulnerable. This will be the one test he fails….'

He rolled onto his stomach, throat raw from the smoke of the grenade that had detonated almost by his feet. Modo was covering his head to protect it from shrapnel and detritus raining down. Man, these Scorp grenades packed one mean fucker of a punch!

'What was that?' Modo wheezed, glancing over his shoulder at the large dark roil of thick smoke.

Vincent shook his head, his ears ringing from the fiery loud discharge. He had no idea what….

'Uh, Vincent…' Throttle, coughing, stared at the figure materializing out of the greying smoke. 'I think this call's for you.' His words were slow and heavy - run through with total disbelief at what his watering stinging eyes were telling him.

'O mama…' Modo did not appear any happier, his voice as stunned as never before. Because now Vincent's silence of the last weeks now started to make sense.

'O no… not again!' Vincent's face was a grimace of unhappiness and resignation as he turned to face his nemesis, the one person he had not wanted to see here… not now...

Because Charlie was walking towards him out of that thick wall of smoke and gas, two fully charged laser guns in her hands, pointed straight at him.

With one clear intent this time.

She was going to kill him.

'We let him handle this, Modo,' Throttle told his grey-furred friend, fur smudged and singed in places. 'There is plenty of work for us.' He pointed at yet more bots and monsters emerging from underneath the stadium. The machines were smaller this time: the big guns hadn't worked so now the second-rate options (Plan B as it were) had been called in.

'They sure adapt quickly, don't they?' Modo groused, stroking his arm cannon. It was hot from all the firing he had done with it. He really didn't want it exploding on him at an inopportune moment.

'You alright, big guy?' Throttle asked him.

'Yea… I'll be fine.' He glanced at Vincent, breathing just a little harder than usual. 'I ain't so sure about him.'

'The only way we can help is to keep those bots and Scorps off his back.' His right hand was blazing with the yellowish-white light of the Nuke Knucks. 'It's tail-whippin time!'

Throttle pounded his fist into the ocher-smeared face of his Scorpion would-be assassin until it was unrecognizable, mushed into jelly. Massaging his painful knuckles - that exoskeleton was not exactly skin-soft - he looked up in time to see Modo jump-kick something that resembled a human being backwards into its comrades. They all fell in a heap - with Modo's precise blasts finding the now-exposed underbellies and vital organs. Thin ear-splitting screeching made Throttle's teeth ache - he detested this sound as much as the inane tittering of his some-time tormentor.

He would have shouted at Modo to duck since there was a still-undead monstrosity trying to throw one of those wickedly sharp knives but he had no time as something equally painful stabbed into the back of his left knee which immediately folded up. He couldn't suppress a sharp cry of pain as metal ground on bone and muscle, and the thin wiry green-grey creature climbed all over him, clearly searching for another vulnerable spot to plant its sticker, shiny with blood. He grabbed its wrist trying to hold it off but the damn thing was strong, very strong for such a scrawny-appearing being. His other leg wouldn't fold far enough for him to be able to kick it off him so all he could do was use his head, literally. At least his skull was harder than his damaged knee - oh, man, to be disabled now of all times!

'Hold on, bro!' rang out the familiar bass of his buddy's voice. 'I'm comin'!'

'You better hurry!' Throttle gasped as that knife came ever closer. He had no leverage to get this mad thing off… He punched it once in the eye. It didn't so much as blink. It slapped him hard, making his head ring, dark spots dance in his eyes.

And then suddenly it was gone, howling and hissing. It clawed at the metal arm holding it, shaking it like a rag doll. Throttle wasted little time, teeth gritted in pain, pulling the trigger on one of the blasters he'd found (the dead creature didn't need it anyway). The hapless killer's wail filled the stadium momentarily stilling the baying for blood.

Throttle, breathing hard, fell back, the blaster loose in his shaking hand. This brawl had gone on too long: the Scorpions seemed to have a whole army - or rather armies - waiting for them in the wings. He was battered. Modo was bruised. Vincent… well, Vincent had his hands full.

'Throttle, you ok, bro?' Modo's voice was full of concern.

Using Modo's shoulder to haul himself up to a sitting position, Throttle shook his head, grimacing.

'We're down to two Mice and a half…' He wiped his streaming face. He was dirty, filthy really - and now seriously wounded. And that was not accounting for all the previous 'tender' attentions of the Scorpion medics.

'Can you stand up?'

'Let's see…' Still gripping his friend's shoulder, Throttle got his still-hale leg under him and let Modo lift him to a standing position. It hurt like all hell! He had to bite his lip, his fingers digging into the grey fur, his eyes squeezing shut.

'I can't put any weight on it.' He gasped, groaning softly. 'I think it's cut all the way.'

And that was only the beginning of their troubles.

Chapter 13

He gasped at the sudden pain, jerking his hand back from the reach of that sharp metal stinger. Damn that thing was keen! And she used it well - where and when had she learned how?

'Charlie! Listen to me!' he tried to communicate with her, to break through whatever drugs or whatnot she'd been given. 'Babe, it's me!'

A kick came real close to breaking his jaw - if he'd not dodged it. Obviously talking was not in the cards tonight. This was going to be one of those silent arguments - silent and deadly.

Fine.

He could do silent. He could do deadly.

'He is resisting.' The Scorpion Commander brushed his chin with his long-fingered hand, looking fixedly at the trio of Mice who were not dead, who were making a mockery of these ceremonies. 'They all are. Perhaps the time has come to teach them that resistance is futile.' He turned his head slightly to the left. 'Activate the latencies.'

He had been just about to shoot the flying some thing which had almost decapitated Modo with its long sharp beak when the bottom seemed to drop out of him. Literally. Suddenly he was not he anymore. He was not Throttle. He was not a Martian Mouse. He was… something else… something alien. Something evil. The evil that he had no chance to resist, to even form a defence plan against. He was out for the count, plain and simple.

'Ah, this is better.' His face twisted into a sinister mask that Modo had never ever seen - or expected to see. 'No more doubts. No more weakness.' He pointed the laser right at Modo's heart. 'Only triumph.'

The large grey Mouse threw himself aside without thinking, the flying monstrosity crashing into what looked like his old friend and fellow Freedom Fighter. The roil, the miasma, of wrongness would have knocked him off his feet in any case - his antennae, sensitive to his bros' personalities and feelings, were shrieking red alert. This…. Creature felt wrong, behaved wrong. This was trouble, in a big way.

'O mama… you never told me about this.'

Her eyes were blazing, lit up brighter than any firework he'd ever seen. Her face was twisted into a mockery of its former beauty. Her body moved with a feline, almost serpentine, grace. She fought with the expertise of a seasoned fighter - which she was not… in fact he was coming to realize that this was not Charlie. This was something else… something deeply perverted. Something that made Karbunkle and his experiments to turn the Martian Mice into an army of bionic slaves seem puerile, childish play by comparison.

Something for which he was not ready…

'Come on, Mouse!' The sniggering creature wearing Throttle's skin, lacerated by that pterodactyl-like flying menace, stalked him, crooning. 'Surely you are not afraid of me, your friend, your bro…'

It made a mockery of that last word, twisting it beyond all rational comprehension. Modo growled deep in his chest, popping up from behind the contorted wreck of a still-smoking bot machine.

'You ain't my bro!' he shouted, letting loose two stunner discharges. That walking zombie still had Throttle's body - he didn't want to hurt him any more than he had to.

'Ah but you are mistaken, my brother,' came Throttle's voice with an alien flat inflection. 'You are trying to kill me… and should you succeed, how will you feel?' Its speech was slow, implacable - like stone grinding on stone. It was starting to get inside his mind: how could he listen to his bro's voice and not do something?

'I say it's time to stop talking and start rocking,' Modo snarled, his eye bright red, aiming and shooting at the busted left knee of his partner. 'I am sorry, Throttle,' he whispered as the possessed body of his friend hit the grimy sand with a short alien-inflected yell, the gun dropping from its hand. Modo was on him fast, knee pressed into his chest, one hand wrapped around his neck, gun pointed right between the eyes.

'Release him. Now.' Modo's voice was stony-cold. He would act. He would do it if he had to. Throttle would understand, would not hold it against him. Death was better than being a Scorpion marionette.

The Scorpion smiled at him, a bloody smile. Both its hands were locked around his wrist. His breathing was ragged - from pain? From what they had done to Throttle?

'Do it, Mouse. Kill me.' The hiss was filled with derision. It thought him weak. It was trying to provoke him. 'Kill your bro - and be damned.'

Modo bared his teeth. Frankly he should kill this thing. Like right now. For his sake. For Throttle's sake. For all their sakes.

But would he be able to live with himself?

He fell to his knees, gasping. She had one mean punch. His head was reeling, his ears were full of a pulsing knell.

'O damn… sweetheart…'

He spat bloody saliva. This had gone on long enough. It had to end. Somehow. One of them had to finish this. And he wasn't sure it was going to be him…

… not when her knee connected with his chin and drove him backwards. He ended up on his back, winded. Before he could even gather his thoughts enough to formulate a defence, Charlie sat on him, the barrel of her gun pressed to his temple.

'So, Mouse, are you ready to die?'

He gaped, stupefied. She had never spoken to him before. Just what the fuck was happening here? Why did she sound so strange? Like a… bug?

'No, not really, sweetie.' He couldn't help himself: it simply came out. 'Why do you ask?' Throw her off her game a bit, that was the ticket.

She laughed, again a very un-Charlie-like sound. Something was wrong here. Like really wrong. Deep-shit wrong.

'Ah Mouse, I know you.' Her hand touched his cheek which still stung from her punch. 'She told me everything about you.' Her voice fell to a sultry whisper. 'Everything.'

'Yea?' His long white tail had been snaking and hovering along her back. Now it locked around her throat. 'Are you sure, honey?' It was his turn to whisper sibilantly - now he was angry: these manipulative illusions had to stop.

She tried to claw the white noose off her neck, surprised, and dropped the laser gun in the process. Which was what he wanted. Picking it up he flipped her onto her back and held the cocked weapon to her temple.

'Now, let's talk, sweetheart. Just what the fuck are you?'

The cold white eyes stared deeply into his, that smirk still in place despite the clear lack of air.

'I WAS Charlene Davidson.' It laughed dryly. 'Now I have been.. improved.'

'Observe how easy it is to turn friend against friend,' the Scorpion Commander turned to Lord Camembert. 'All you need is the right leverage.'

The obese High Chairman stroked his oversized chin reflectively. Leverage indeed. These Scorpions were the perfect allies for his plans to ruin not only Earth but the rest of the galaxy. Who knew? Perhaps they could help him take over the entirety of the universe, known and unknown.

'Your medics do excellent work, Commander.' A little flattery never hurt anything. 'Perhaps our arrangements will work out well.'

He had managed to finally persuade the Head Medic and the SSS Commander that trade in slaves (the Martian Mice being part of that, of course) would be beneficial for the Scorpion planet. The spider relatives would receive a steady stream of subjects for their experimentation in return for modest fees to cover their capture. The Scorpions could have been the ones to do the dirty work of catching their prey. However, they were a secretive race: they did not wish to expose themselves more than necessary. They would liaise with the Plutarkian representatives - and keep tabs on them, of course. In this wide and ruthless universe, one could never be too careful. Could one?

'So what will happen to these Martian scum now, Commander?'

The humanoid Scorpion's smile was not a pleasant sight: too many sharp teeth.

'That, Lord Camembert, is a very good question.' He sat up straighter in his chair: bipedal anatomy was not comfortable, not really. 'It is up to them now.'

Chapter 14

'Do it, bro,' Throttle gasped, his hand squeezing his friend's metal wrist. 'Just do it.'

'I CAN'T!' Modo's voice was full of pain. 'I can't just…'

'Do it, Modo,' Throttle made his tone firm, pulling rank (much as he hated being pushed to it). There was little time left: that Scorpion medico had practically hard-wired itself into his psyche. A few more seconds and he'd never return to his own self. 'Otherwise we're all dead.'

Modo's face was disfigured with self-loathing. He hated himself. He hated the Scorpions. He hated everything just now.

'Modo, listen to me,' Throttle breathed, looking straight into his best friend's eye. 'I will be fine. Once that thing thinks I'm dead, I can reclaim my body.' He grimaced: this was not a favour he was asking for. This was deadly, terminal. Their last chance to get the Scorpion medic out of his mind, out of his body. 'Please…'

Modo opened his mouth to protest (please or no please, he couldn't just…!) when Throttle pulled the rug (and rank) out from under him.

'Do it, soldier. That's an order.'

'Do it, Mouse. Pull the trigger.' It cackled madly, contorting Charlie's face once more. 'That is all you have left now, hero.' It licked its lips, a revolting sight if he'd ever seen one. 'Your beloved is no more.' It struck its point home, taunting him, enjoying itself. 'I killed her, not long after she was brought to me. This is just an empty husk now. Useless. Easily discarded…' Its cold white eyes lit up. 'I thought you might like to do the disposing, o my brave Martian Mouse.' Its voice dropped to a mocking whisper of a hiss. 'You Mice are supposed to be good at cleaning up garbage, right?'

He knew it was an empty provocation. He knew that as soon as he shot it this thing would just turn back into a Scorpion…

But…

What if it didn't?

What if that nighttime vision, dream, whatever had been true? What if he had truly seen her snatched from Chicago?

What if this really was her?

Could he take that risk?

Could he actually kill…?

Would he?

His whole body wrenched in uncontrollable spasms of pain, strong enough to throw the larger Mouse off him. He yelled his agony and clawed at the stained sand, his heart beating a machine-gun drum roll against his still-not quite healed ribs, his lungs straining for air. His thoughts were a hot jumble right behind his bionic eyes (his or Karbunkle's?). He could make no sense of what his brain was doing, what he felt. All rational sensation and sentiment had been drowned in this ocean of torment, both physical and mental.

He writhed in teeth-clenched throes, gathering fistfuls of sand and throwing them aside. His ears picked up a far-away voice, a deep one trying to say something - to soothe him? He was not sure. He didn't care. He just wanted the agony in his body and mind to stop - relent for a moment so he could breathe properly.

'Throttle!'

Something rocked him.

Something shook him hard.

He lashed out, heard a grunt as his fist found flesh.

'Hey!'

His wrist was grabbed - a far-away sensation which hardly registered with him.

His head snapped sideways…

… as a large grey palm slapped sense into him.

He gawked, mouth open.

'Bro?' The one syllable burst out in a soft whisper. He blinked, a large grey face solidifying into a clearer picture. 'Modo…' His jaw moved slowly as he re-adjusted his senses, his connection to his still-twitching physical self. 'You whipped tail on my jaw, didn't you?' His voice came out breathless from his heaving chest.

'Yea well… after what you made me do to you, buddy, I figured that's the least you deserved.' Modo's voice was rough, hoarse: too many emotions to untangle just now - and would he really ever understand them all anyway? Better not think about that.

'Anytime, bro.' Throttle sat up, pulled muscles protesting, a little dizzy from the mental re-arrangement, his knee a shrieking ball of agony. 'If it does the job…'

'Speaking of job…' Modo jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'This one ain't over yet.'

'Oh I hate overtime…' Throttle smiled, painfully, holding out his hand.

Modo chuckled as they shared a warrior to warrior fist salute.

'Let's make it short, then.'

'VINCENT! NO!

'Bro, don't do it!'

It was too late, way too late.

Vincent had already pulled the trigger.

And howled when no expected transformation took place.

Only Charlie, laying there. On the tainted sand. Not moving. Not stirring.

Dead.

Her eyes though…

Her eyes were not the cold white of the Scorpion medic…

No…

As he'd pulled the trigger that last time, her eyes had been green.

The green of her own self.

Of Charlie, the best damn mechanic this side of Jupiter.

He stared in frozen horror at what he'd done, the laser gun falling from his shaking hand which rose to his face to cover it, to hide his gut-wrenching grief, his tears.

'He's…' Throttle couldn't believe his eyes.

'... Crying…' Modo whispered, equally stunned.

'I didn't think he knew how…' Throttle's voice had fallen into the region of his boots, all his senses reeling in absolute shock.

Vincent was on his knees, rocking back and forth, shuddering, sobbing.

It was over…

He'd done it.

It was all over...

Wasn't it?

Throttle started to hop-walk with Modo as his crutch. They had to get to Vincent before he blew his top. This was the one thing they had not counted on, the surprise Scorpions had kept until the last moment. Those bastard bugs...

'O mama, I think they've pushed this too far…' Modo groaned, stopping dead with his brown-furred partner leaning on him and breathing quickly. He was getting worn out - and Vincent… well...

Slowly their white-furred friend let his hands drop - to reveal a face ravaged by hopelessness, fury - and cold indifference. He was gonna KILL EM! Kill them ALL!

'Remember that ancient Martian myth?' Throttle asked his broad-shouldered bro, his practically destroyed knee letting him know it was there once again.

'You mean the Berserker God?'

'Yea…' Throttle nodded, sighing sharply. 'I think we're looking at him.'

Lawrence Limburger knew the moment had come. The time to get out of here. To save his skin. That white mouse was gunning for him, his red eyes filled with hate, the kind of hate he'd experienced on Mars. the kind of hate that didn't care about life, death, or anything else. The kind of hate that only craved vengeance.

'You fools!' the fishy-smelling Plutarkian muttered, hiding behind his chair. 'You blasted idiots!'

Pressing the intercom button on his earset Limburger ordered Dr. Karbunkle to power up the transporter. Now.

Putting most of his weight on the makeshift crutch, Throttle looked after the disappearing purple suit.

'Let's follow him,' he said, breathing heavily. He was exhausted, beat and not just physically. He avoided looking at the burden in Modo's arms. Right now getting their tails out was more important - grief had to wait.

'What about….? Modo jerked his head in the direction of the arena, the noises echoing down the tunnel.

'We can't help him now.' Throttle glanced back, shielding his eyes from yet another very bright detonation. 'He's in his own world… the Berserker God incarnate.' He patted his best buddy's shoulder. 'He will follow us. Eventually. I simply don't want that fucking Plutarkian oligarch slinking off on his own.'

'Right,' Modo agreed, expression grim. 'He has a lot to answer for.'

'Vincent, where are you going?'

'To finish it,' Vincent threw over his shoulder, his eyes narrow and hot.

'There is no need, bro,' Throttle told him, his fingers pressed to Charlie's neck. 'She isn't dead.'

Vincent took one step - and stopped abruptly. Slowly he turned around.

'What did you say, Throttle?'

His voice was soft, dangerously so. Modo straightened up from where he was leaning on the wall of the Limburger Tower. They'd made it through the transporter - somehow or other. That part was blurry still. Modo shook himself. Right. Back to the situation at hand. Vincent looked like he really was in some sort of Zen zone, the Vincent Van Killer Zen - which Modo was not really familiar with and was not sure he truly wanted to get acquainted with.

'I said, Vincent,' Throttle kept his voice reasonable, speaking slowly. 'Charlie is not dead. Thus, there is no need to trash this dump.' He shrugged. 'Not today, anyway.'

Vincent glanced from his bro to the unconscious woman on the floor, then back up at Throttle, Modo. His mouth worked to form syllables but nothing came out. He was shaking, clearly suffering from a sudden adrenaline crash.

'She's alive, Vin,' Modo murmured as to a fractious mousling. 'It's alright.'

The laser guns made a loud metallic noise as they dropped from hands that couldn't hold them anymore. As if in a trance, Vincent came closer and went down on his knees. His eyes found his bro's.

'You aren't lying to make me feel better, right?'

He looked so young, so vulnerable, that Modo had to look away. Man, he was so like Viktor! It rent his heart.

'Biker's honour, Vincent,' Throttle assured him, solemn, holding out his hand.

Vincent took it, pressed it, grateful.

'Then why are we still gathered here today?' he smiled at his bros.

Modo rolled his eyes. Trust Vinman to break the tension that he had created in the first place.

'Right… let's bail…'

'Before we get noticed,' Modo added.

Chapter 15

'Charlie?'

He tapped the bathroom door again, then gently pushed it part-way open.

'Babe?'

He poked his head inside. She was in her bathrobe, standing in front of the bathroom vanity mirror, toothbrush in hand.

'Charlie?'

Her posture was rigid, the toothbrush nowhere near her mouth. Her face was distorted into a mask of horror and disgust.

He stepped inside the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He could see his reflection in the mirror but clearly Charlie did not. What she was seeing he could not possibly tell. Approaching her, he put his hands on her shoulders.

'What is it, babe? What's wrong?'

She did not answer, her eyes wide open, but the toothbrush did drop from her stiff hand and clattered into the sink, filling with water from an open tap. Reaching around her he shut it off.

And that was when with a soft wail Charlie turned around and buried her face in his chest, his arms filling with more woman than he'd held for the last four weeks as he battled his own demons.

Demons of remorse. Demons of guilt. He'd not killed her, true but… he had come close. That fact had revealed certain facets of his personality to him that he was not comfortable with. It was damn ugly to realize that he could just go nuts like that. That he could just… lose it so completely.

He had never thought of himself as a berserker before.

Comforter of (crying) women, yes. That was Vincent de rigueur.

Vincent the Berserker God in the flesh… well… that… that took some thought… which was not a comforting picture by any stretch of the imagination.

And just now imagination was not something he needed or wanted to think about. Because Charlie was sobbing convulsively into his chest, her fist dully hitting his shoulder (which he didn't mind at all).

And Vincent simply held her, stroking her warm auburn hair, keeping his own demons at bay... for her sake.

'Throttle, talk to me.'

He stiffened, eyes briefly closing, his fiddling fingers shaking and almost dropping the leather half-gloves. He didn't turn around, continued to gaze out of the window. He didn't trust himself just now. He hadn't trusted himself for the last four weeks. His dreams, his thoughts… he couldn't sleep, the scenes, the events re-playing themselves in his mind, in his nightmares.

'Throttle?'

There was a note of uncertainty in her voice now. Pressing his lips together, he sighed.

'Carbine.'

Her name dropped from his lips, almost emotionless. He simply didn't trust himself. Not after all that had happened. What she might see… what he might let slip past his fragile self-control…

'Why did you come?' he asked her, his voice strained, hoarse, his hands still restlessly fidgeting. He was not comfortable with this meeting, not at all. He wanted - needed - time alone, by himself to sort out what was going on in his mind.

To be frank, they all did.

'What happened on that planet, Throttle?' she evaded his question by asking her own, a very direct Carbine-style response to a challenge. 'What did they do to you?'

He couldn't help it: his spine went rigid as a slow-burning fury began to slip the brittle bonds of his will. She would challenge him? Really? Just who did she think she was?

'What didn't they do,' he all but snapped. 'I think what they did is pretty obvious.' He half-turned his head. 'Don't you?'

Indeed Carbine had been trying hard not to think about the multitude of scars criss-crossing his back and shoulders. There were more than she remembered. She had been wondering idly about the damage under his skin: there surely must be some - the scars appeared to be deep, not quite healed.

'On the surface, yes,' she agreed, keeping her voice down. He realized she'd walked up to him. He could feel her breath on his neck. Damn damn…! 'But that is not what I meant.' She was looking at him steadily, her eyes probing like sensors. O man, he didn't need that now! 'And you know it.'

She was going to be stubborn about it. Not a surprise really. She'd not have climbed the ranks to become a general if she'd not been obstinate.

'You want to know what they did to me…' His smile was all teeth, not a pretty sight. He was breathing hard now, his hands turning into fists. 'Fine.' Quicker than a flash, his hand snapped out and grabbed her by the throat. Pinning her to the wall by the window, he hissed, 'Let me show you, then.'

As a red-tinged torrent of images and feelings assaulted her mind and senses, Carbine tried to get his hand off her neck but this was two hundred plus pounds of muscle driven by anger and about as easy to push away as Mons Olympus. She gave up her struggle and held on to his rock-solid forearm, drowning in his despair, his helpless fury as he relived the torture, the Games, the drugs, through her. She couldn't but feel his hopelessness, his rage at not being able to fight back. He let her hear every scream, know the touch of the 'therapeutic' tools used on him, sense his black despair.

When at last it was over, he allowed his arm to drop, his breathing ragged, and turned away. He wasn't ready for the expression on her face - or the sight of the red livind marks of his hand on her neck. He wasn't ready to face her - or this thing he had become.

'Karbunkle took my eyes, Carbine,' he ground out between clenched teeth, his hands rising to cover his face. 'The Scorpions took my soul.'

And then he howled, tears streaking down his cheeks, sinking to his knees, his soul rent in agony. He swayed back and forth in his misery as Carbine stared at him in total shock: he had never told her about his eyes. Never even mentioned that 'small' detail…

'Throttle…'

Her hand reached out to touch him, to soothe his pain - somehow... she couldn't just do nothing!

Could she?

'Guys, has anyone seen Throttle?'

The two Mice at the table and Charlie exchanged startled confused looks.

'Uh.. no,' Modo said, drawing out the negative. 'Why?'

'His bed is empty,' Carbine explained. 'It doesn't appear to have been slept in.'

'I did see him last night before bedtime,' Vincent volunteered, a spike of worry snaking its way down his spine.

'What about his bike? Is it still here?' Charlie asked, frowning: Throttle had never been one to just slink off.

'I didn't check…'

'I'll go,' Vincent offered, putting deed to word.

The next fifteen minutes revealed the absence of both motorcycle and its rider. No note. No clear trail. The two Biker Mice tried to reach their amigo through the antennae link but that fell flat: they were not able to pick up anything.

'Houston, we have a problem,' Vincent summed up the situation.

'He hasn't been himself since we returned,' Charlie remarked, chewing her lip. 'He doesn't sleep.'

'He can't sleep,' Modo corrected her, shaking his head sadly. 'You didn't see what those scum did to him.'

Vincent nodded, rubbing his arms. Watching his bro in distress had not been his cup of root beer at all. And the worst part of it all was that he had no idea how to even BEGIN to help Throttle.

'He's sleep-deprived.' Charlie looked from one to the other of the three Mice. 'He's not thinking rationally.'

'No… and has left us no trace,' Modo said moodily, leaning back in his chair which creaked under his not-inconsiderable weight.

'He did take his weapons, though,' Vincent observed a little off-handedly.

'O no…' Modo sat up straight, as if electrocuted. He gawked at Vincent, whose face had also lit up with the sudden import of what he'd said. 'O no no no….'

'Why would he…?' Charlie asked, although the answer was already in her mind as she caught on to the significance of Vincent's words.

'He's gone…'

'... back…' Carbine looked at all of them, her eyes wide with frustrated realization.

'... for payback,' Modo concluded.

'For revenge,' Carbine echoed him.

Chapter 16

'Ah Mouse I have been expecting you,' whispered that hateful voice.

'Come out, putrid insect,' Throttle growled with a undercurrent of a snarl, his laser cocked and sitting negligently on his right shoulder. His eyes scanned the darkness. He knew the damn Scorpion was there, in the blackness, watching him - laughing no doubt. Well, the last laugh was gonna be on him right?

'Our.. association was so rudely interrupted the last time,' the Scorpion medic smiled through its words. 'I was... disappointed…'

'Were you now?' Throttle let a throaty chuckle escape him, his fury held in check at a high point. He'd needed it to get here. He'd need it to finish this… mockery of an association. He half-turned, his boots scraping across the grit, all his warrior senses spread out to catch any trace of that Scorpion menace.

'I must congratulate you, o brave Martian Mouse, on your ingenuity.' Again that same self-satisfied tone had entered its voice, the one he'd heard in his nightmares, the one he detested. 'You have succeeded in finding my home. Something no one else has been able to do.'

'Enough chit-chat,' Throttle cut it off. 'I didn't come here to talk.' He fired off a laser blast in the direction of the voice. 'I came here to kill.'

'Ah, you're honest too.' The Scorpion laughed, a light dry sound. 'I like that in my… patients.' The voice seemed to expand, to encircle him - it pressed in on his eardrums. He growled, a rising tide of sound from somewhere deep in his belly, and let loose several more laser shots - to light up the darkness. The ubiquitous tiles of the Scorpion building interior began to glow with a cold blue light which became brighter…

… and revealed a cavernous chamber, at least thirty feet by thirty feet. The walls and ceiling were covered in these light-emitting tiles. Given that the Scorpions preferred darkness to live in, they were not used to sunlight. They needed a different light source. Was this phosphorescent?

'Why don't you step into the light and say that to my face?' he challenged. 'Or are you afraid? Still ain't got that mirror?'

'You have backbone, rodent.' Yet again, that same admiration tinged the insect voice. 'In spite of being broken…' A sound in a far dim corner. 'You wanted to see me, o courageous warrior?' A formless shape materialized, then resolved into a woman. A heart-wrenchingly beautiful leather-clad woman armed to the nines: two rifles slung on her back in an X shape, two short pistols strapped to her thighs, two knife belts with those ultra-thin ultra-sharp blades, small missile launchers attached to her shoulder pads, all set and ready.

'Here I am.' She smiled. It would have been a pretty smile - if it didn't have keen pointed teeth. 'Would you care for this dance, Martian Mouse?'

'Well, the tracks are clear.' Vincent pointed at the dark irregular line of rubber trace.

'Yea,' Modo stood up, following them with his eyes - right up to the tall transporter machine in the centre of the top floor of Limburger Tower.

'So why are we standing here?' Charlie demanded from her seat behind Vincent. She was shivering which made her voice higher than it would be normally. That transport machine would take them back to that Scorpion planet where…

'Babe?'

She started, found Vincent's eyes on her. She swallowed, his hand curling around her cheek.

'It's fine, babe. We're in this together,' he reassured her, some of his usual bravado ringing in his voice. That made her feel better - although usually she'd give him the sharp edge of her tongue. This time…

Modo coughed - delicately.

'Charlie-m'am, I need your help here to start this thing.'

Charlie nodded, still not quite over the startling fit of the shakes. Vincent, gallantly, offered her his hand to help her get off. She managed a smile for him in return. Trust Vincent to break the ice - as it were.

'This machine is new,' she commented. 'Fresh off the assembly line.'

'The old one must be… broken?' Carbine suggested.

'We did sort of destroy the other one…' Modo remarked in a non-chalant kind of tone, his metal finger tapping his lip.

'You know, we need us one of these,' Vincent observed in his usual off the cuff manner. 'So we don't have to visit Stink Central every time we want to take a trip outside town.'

'I'll get right on it, hotshot,' Charlie promised him, powering up the device. 'As soon as you get me the blueprints from Karbunkle's office.'

'I'll get them for your birthday, baby-cakes,' Vincent promised, winking at her. 'On a silver platter. With a red ribbon.'

'Make it green,' Charlie told him, depressing the lever.

'Green it is.' Vincent grinned and revved up his red ride.

He rolled away from another laser burst. On his belly he let loose two short salvos in her direction as the ice-white lightning sizzled over his head and hit one of the illuminated tiles which exploded. This whole business was getting hotter by the minute.

'Come, Mouse,' she encouraged him. 'Get up…. Or is your knee bothering you?'

Now that she mentioned it, his knee was twinging. It still was not healed. It made him slower. It was a weakness to be exploited.

'No shit...' He grunted, getting to his feet gradually and trying hard not to allow any pain to show on his face. She did not appear to be in any. No strain showed on her painfully pretty face. No sweat even. Well… she was an insect - did insects sweat?

'It is warm here, do you not agree?' she suggested, her eyes flashing at him as if she had read his thoughts. 'Fresh air seems to be in order. Shall we take a stroll outside?' She holstered one gun. 'On the roof perhaps?' With the remaining blaster she shot at the floor near his feet - to distract him while one of the portable rockets smashed into the wall behind him, destabilizing the structural integrity enough for the wall to buckle and give.

'Follow me if you dare, Mouse.' She laughed, running with extraordinary agility up the other side of the room towards a hatch hidden behind a false glowing tile. He would have taken her up on her offer of following, except that he was busy dodging falling debris, some of which was bigger than his head.

He had almost made it to the other side of the disintegrating chamber, hobbling, when the floor dropped out from under him.

'Whoa!'

He tried to snatch at the broken-off edge, to not plunge he didn't know how far down but that proved impossible - because a large piece of ceiling crumbled at that point and took with it the part of the floor he was hanging on to. He was free-falling with nothing to keep hold of, to break his fall and several truckloads of rubble tumbling in his wake.

'O what a time to be without my bike!'

Carbine checked around the corner, down the black passageway.

'So where to now?'

'Find his bike first. He won't be far,' Modo suggested, his Li'l Hoss roaring quietly.

'I'm on it.' Vincent engaged the tracking device on his motorcycle - it beeped after half a minute search. 'Bingo!'

'Where is he?' Carbine demanded, her eyes making a scrutiny of the windowless walls and the dark sky. They didn't need any unpleasant surprises now. That new transporter machine had been surprise enough - especially since the Tower proved to be empty. Was Limburger out somewhere stirring up trouble?

'East of here,' Vincent supplied. 'I say twenty minutes and we're hot.'

'Let's roll.' Modo closed his helmet.

Damn! But it hurt when all his weight hung off his Nuke-Knucked fist jammed into a fist-shaped crack he'd made in an attempt to stop his fall. He groaned, teeth grating against each other, his other hand searching for a more secure handhold, one that would not result in breaking his wrist. He kinda would need his hands functioning at some future point. Flattening himself against the gently sloping wall he waited for the rest of the wreckage to tumble and slam its thunderous way down to the bottom of this apparently depthless building.

When the shaking finally came to an end and his ragged, strained breathing became the loudest sound, he glanced up and sideways using the tip of his long tail to zoom his specs which amazingly were not cracked or scratched, just smudged.

'Thank you, Stoker,' he whispered gratefully, analyzing the surface of the shattered well-like shaft. This was going to be one fucking long wall climb - with no safety gear but for his tail. 'And no buddy to egg me on. Bummer… Vinnie, where are you when I need you?'

'We're really hot now,' Vincent nodded his head at the leaning structure. 'You remember this one, Modo?'

'Nope,' came the immediate reply.

'That's our ticket then.' Vincent shifted gears and Charlie had to hold on tighter: when the macho hotshot Mouse got the bit between his teeth…

'Don't forget the program, Vinman,' Modo reminded him, his headlight flooding the paving which was not asphalt but something else. He couldn't put his finger on it - and didn't really want to.

'I got ya, I got ya.' Vincent waved him off.

Groaning in pain, Throttle heaved himself over the edge of the bit of floor sticking out of the corroded wall and lay flat on his back, his chest heaving. His busted knee was a fireball of agony. Muscles he didn't know he had moaned in concert with him (he had to get his conditioning into gear again). He flexed his aching fingers, gazing up at the next bit of floor.

'Is it just me or is this a video game?' he croaked, getting to his elbows, pinching the space between his eyes. He needed a drink - root beer, water, anything really. He hadn't thought about that when he'd ridden off into the night. He hadn't been thinking at all, actually. 'You Scorps didn't want me to be thinking, did you?' he said, looking up to where that medico was waiting for him. 'Of course you didn't.' He spat grit and saliva out of his mouth. 'Right…' He scooted backwards to use the wall to help him stand up, grimacing as his damaged knee protested loudly and painfully. 'I know you can hear me,' he called out, his face turned up to glare through the rock and metal separating them. 'Clever spider… You should've killed me…'

'Possibly,' came that o so well-known smirking voice from all around him. 'But then… what is the fun in that?'

He tensed, anticipating an imminent attack, a nasty surprise (these Scorpions were real good at that). What he didn't expect was to be slammed against the broken shards behind him, his throat locked, all air cut off.

'I could kill you now, Mouse.' There was a cold terminal fury in the medico's sickly-sweet tone. 'I should kill you.' Sharp rocks dug into his back as he clawed at the invisible some-thing that did not budge one little bit. 'You.' He was slapped into the wall a second time to punctuate the pronoun. 'Cost.' Another painful smack that rattled his teeth. 'Me.' A dark hiss accompanied with a quick hurl into another part of the wall, one that buckled slightly. 'The.' Again, but this time his skull started to bounce off rock. 'Lives.' He was thrown to the edge of the ledge, half-sliding off it, his cheek crunched on the rough surface. 'Of.' Enormous pressure on his spine, dark spots in his vision. 'My.' Piercing lancing pain in his brain - he yelled, struggling to free himself from the pernicious presence. 'Dear.' He was slid across the ledge and jounced off the pointy rocks, managing to turn his shoulder to absorb most of the impact just in time to avoid having his face bashed in. 'Friends.' A contemptuous kick in the kidneys which sent him sprawling and nearly off the fragile bit of flooring. 'Are we having fun yet?' The pernicious hiss was in his mind, spreading its tentacles out, invading him. 'I could have you throw yourself off here. And no one will be the wiser.' His head was pulled back, his neck wrenched roughly. 'Is that what you want, hero?' He could breathe again - not well due to his neck position but that was better than nothing.

'If it's fun you want,' he wheezed, snapping out his tail and wrapping it around the 'body' he could sense through their very intimate link and yanking the 'leg' out from under the Scorpion female medico. 'It's fun you get.' He flipped her, his fist blazing as it slammed into her belly. Now that she was visible, the odds were even - and so were her knives. He reached for one while she gasped for breath and without even thinking stuck it into her throat, twisting it to inflict even more permanent damage.

She shrieked, that same shrill ear-cutting sound he'd heard before, jerking as the black-green ocher left her body in a fountain which sprayed him with a hot splash. He got his arm up in time to protect most of his face. The last thing he wanted was to taste this alien 'blood'.

'Damn!'

The silence was unanticipated, abrupt. He knelt over the dead Scorpion, her eyes open wide and dull. She was dead, mouth yawning in that last wail of pain and anger. Struggling for breath,Throttle let the stained knife clank into the spreading pool of her bodily liquids.

'Damn…' he swore again, moving stiffly, half-sliding in the slick, to a clearer patch where he sat, watching her and trying to get his breath back. Now EVERYTHING hurt - once again. He moved his hurting jaw, hawked and spat over the edge into the bottomless darkness. Letting his hand dangle off his less-injured knee, he stared at the dead body.

'I am no hero,' he told her, his heart learning in a mad cadence, his lungs drinking in air. 'Just a Biker Mouse.'

Chapter 17

'No fair, bro! You went tail-whipping without us!'

He sat up, startled out of his reverie - or was it unconsciousness? - and peered upwards.

'Is that you, Vinnie?' he called back, relieved. Of course Vincent would follow him! 'I was just chilling down here, you know… Thought I'd take a nap or something..'

'A fall down the drain kind of nap?' That was Modo, his deep voice making the walls vibrate.

'Well…' Throttle shrugged. 'It was more of a flying down the drain kind of nap.'

'Find anything interesting at the bottom, muscle Mouse?'

His mouth fell open. Carbine? Here? After what he…?

'Ah…'

'Throttle, are you alright?' That was Charlie, her concern clear in her voice.

'I'll take a tail up - or just plain old rope.' He inhaled slowly, woozy. 'If you know what I mean.'

'Would you like it short, medium, or long, brother?' Vincent asked sweetly.

'I'll take a long one.'

'That's ten dollars, sir,' Vincent laughed.

'What is this? Starbucks?' Throttle chuckled painfully, gripping the rope that hung right in front of him. 'Hope you're ready to receive.'

'Please talk to our shipping and receiving associate,' Vincent grinned at Modo, who snorted and crossed his arms.

'What's the phone number?' Throttle asked, appearing over the edge of the abyss, covered in dirt, blood (some of it his own from scrapes and lacerations), bruises blooming on his cheek and shoulder (at least).

'1-800-what the…?' Modo was off his motorcycle fast to just about pick him up.

'I'm fine, big fella. I can stand,' Throttle breathed, patting his big bro's shoulder.

'Fine?' Charlie had her first-aid kid out, her ever-expressive eyebrow lifting. 'I have a mirror here if you want it.'

He sort of smiled, his jaw letting him know how tender it was.

'Ch-Charlie… I…'

'What he needs is a court-martial,' Carbine cut in, looking him up and down, her concern as clear as day.

'Yea well…. Let's make this short and martial,' he suggested tiredly, leaning on his bike which beeped its welcome. 'I don't think this building will be standing for much longer.'

'No,' Vincent started up his ride. 'Not after we're through.'

'And thorough,' Modo added darkly.

Throttle patted the seat of his motorcycle, his lips curved up.

'Care to join me, general?'

Carbine shook her head, eyes glinting as Vincent looked on, a sly expression on his face, and Charlene bit her lip, shaking her head.

'Is that an offer or a request, dear sir?'

'It's an order?' he chuckled, with a little pained hitch at the end of it.

Carbine approached him, touched his other less-swollen cheek.

'You know, for someone about to be court-martialed, you sure have nerve,' she remarked, settling in behind him, muck and all.

He relaxed, picking up her well-known scent.

'I am certain it will be a most PAINStaking court-martial,' he threw over his shoulder, smirking.

Vincent chortled. Charlene rolled her eyes. Modo guffawed.

The black and chrome motorcycle thrummed under him as he started the engine: a good feeling, solid. What he needed right now.

'Alright, boys,' he called out, grinning at them all. 'Kick it!'

'I knew this had been too easy,' Modo muttered when his bike emerged from the transporter into a hail of enemy fire. 'The Stinkcheese Missed-You committee.' He let rip with a couple of small but powerful rockets that destroyed the floor under the five goons right in front of the room door. They screamed as their foot support vanished and they had to think about saving their lives instead of killing Mice.

Vincent's red ride smoked its way along a wall taking the goons from above, making them scuttle for cover - from which Throttle's ride flushed them, taking matters into its own hands as its brown rider concentrated on not falling off now that the going was rough. Carbine added her firepower to that of the others - to effect operation Breakthrough.

'Annihilate those wretched vermin!' came a familiar shriek over the intercom as Greasepit (the real one this time) prepped his machine gun to shred the Martian voles. What he didn't count on was a narrow missile launched from Vincent's red bike - one that entered the barrel of the gun and slammed into the clockwork. The oil-slick giant was thrown backwards as his weapon blew up into many flying pieces.

'Let's get outta here!' Vincent made the call because now the path was cleared.

'So long, Cheese for Brains!' Modo wished their enemy as he and Vincent burst open the wall that led to a windowed corridor.

Utilizing the windows (their usual mode of exit since doors were so passé) they flew out into the warm Chicago night. Throttle held on for dear life. Usually he'd love dropping through the air but right now his body was sending the not-so-subtle signals of giving out. When the black and chrome bike wheels hit the pavement, his body jarred. If Carbine hadn't been holding him, he'd have fallen off.

'Thanks, general,' he whispered, his mouth barely able to move.

'No problem, soldier.' Her caring smile was clear in her tone.

As fire and smoke alarms went off all over Limburger Tower, the Martian Mice made off down the wide boulevard in the staccato roar of their hogs, hooting their triumph.

Chapter 18

'You said Karbunkle took your eyes,' Carbine remarked, lifting one eyebrow.

'Ah…' He sighed, eyes closing briefly. Right…. 'I see the court-martial has started.' His voice was very quiet as he sort of, kind of, tried to sit up in bed. This bed was Charlie's in the bedroom above her garage, in fact. The only place available for a convalescing macho Mouse - and a private conversation. A very serious private conversation. Perhaps it was time to clear the air. As it were.

'Yea, he did.' Three short words while he looked away from the one Mouse he should be able to talk to. But there was too much between them…

'Am I so ugly, Throttle?' she asked, tilting her head, her eyes very direct. She was not letting him off the hook this time. He couldn't run anywhere, not with his knee in a cast and his shoulder bandaged, not to mention heating pads for his bruises.

'Ah, no… I-ah… I didn't say that.' O man, this was rapidly going downhill!

'Then why won't you look at me when we're talking?' Her voice was soft, her hand was on his leg.

'Carbine…' Fine. She wanted to have this out. Very well. 'That battle. When we were captured…' It was hard to talk about this, to relive that. 'There was…' He swallowed. 'An explosion. We were thrown. Like trash.' His words were short, hard. The pain! That had been…! 'I was blinded. My eyes were… I don't know what. But…' He shook his head. 'I woke up in Karbunkle's lab with bandages over my eyes. I thought I was blind.' His voice had dropped, anger making it deep. His hand was a fist, gripping the bed sheets. 'That weird son of a bitch was experimenting. On us. On…' He exhaled sharply: those memories had kept him awake at night. The pain. The drugs. He'd learned to subdue them. The recent 'therapeutic' stint with the Scorpions had brought them out into the light. And they were not going back into their box in the attic.

'On Modo. On Vinnie,' she finished for him. 'On you.'

'And others.' He let his head thump back against the headboard. It was hard to keep his feelings, his memories, in check. There indeed was no door to his cell, his mind. The Scorpions had been right. 'You have no idea how it felt,' he whispered through gritted teeth. 'You wake up… and there is this blazing pain… one ass-kicker of a pain.' He shook his head side to side. 'And you can't do anything to stop it… because you're tied… restrained… chained. HELPLESS!' He let out a sudden yell of frustrated rage. 'And when you wake up… when you're finally out… the first thing you see… all you see is the surgeon.' His voice was half-strangled now - with hate added to the combustible mix of rage and memory. 'The one who did it to you.' He held her gaze, unflinching. 'Karbunkle.' The name came out like a curse, a wad of spittle.

Carbine sat rigid, her eyes opened wide in shock. She had never known. Never learned this. No one had ever told her. The casualty list from that one battle had not included their names. It had been assumed that they were dead. Because they had been at the centre of the explosion.

The list had been wrong.

Very wrong.

'I…' she tried to say something.

'We escaped,' he continued, hoarse, cutting in: that door was a floodgate now. 'Thanks to Modo's arm. Found a ship. The Plutarkian bastards tracked us. Shot us down. We landed.' His lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. 'Crash-landed, actually. Here.' He closed his eyes, body going slack. His mouth twisted. 'Will that be all, general?'

'Throttle, I… I didn't know,' Carbine breathed. 'None of your names were on the casualty list.'

'You didn't know…' he echoed her softly. 'You did not know…' He took a very deliberate long breath. 'Did you bother?'

'What do you mean?' she asked in a hushed voice.

'Did you even bother to find out what had happened? Or did you simply take the list at face value - like those tapes Brie had made?' He kept his tone soft, each word clear and precise. The effect was exactly what he wanted: Carbine gaped at him, completely astonished by the unexpected venom and fury of his questions.

'Did you, general?' He rubbed his aching knee, his insides tangled with the spleen of hating himself for what he'd said. Damn, was he a mess!

'Is that what you think, Throttle? That I abandoned you?'

'Didn't you?' he fired back, in a breathy whisper. 'Didn't you… babe?'

'Call Stoker.'

Modo gawked, the electronic wrench whirring air.

'Now.'

'Ah, what happened?' he asked, turning off the device. Carbine had a super stubborn expression on her face - some would have called it mulish, obstinate.

'Carbine?' That was Charlie, poking her head around the door of the supply room.

'He's lost.' Carbine rubbed her arms, looking as unhappy as ever they'd seen her. 'He.. he needs help.'

Charlie and Modo exchanged long looks. They had heard the yell earlier so they knew there had been an explosion of some sort.

'Lets ride over to Quigley Field then,' Modo suggested. 'The remote intercom is there.'

Charlie nodded. 'You two go. I'll stay here.' She jerked her thumb up at the ceiling. 'Try to keep the lid on.'

'Rimfire, where is Stoker?' Modo demanded as soon as his nephew picked up the contact.

'Uncle Modo, is it you?' He seemed puzzled, startled by this unanticipated communication.

'Rimfire,' Modo cut across the pleasantries. 'I need Stoker. Now.'

'What's happening, Uncle?' Rimfire sounded confused still: had he just woken up?

'Get me Stoker and I will explain,' Modo replied gruffly.

If what Carbine had told him on the way over was true, Throttle was not alright. He was hurting. Hurting so much that he was not thinking rationally even now. The Scorpions had broken him, had all but destroyed him. He was lost and couldn't find his way out of the morass those damn insects had dragged him into. Not this time.

This time he needed his friends. All of them. And that included Stoker.

'Throttle.'

O no! Not Stoke! Of all the Mice...!

He didn't need this now!

'Stoker.'

Once more he was staring out the window of Charlie's garage. This time he was leaning on a crutch, his knee (wrapped in a cast) taking its sweet time healing. He really wanted to be alone - the others, apparently, had had different ideas. His friends… His bros...

'They are worried, Throttle,' Stoker confirmed as if reading his mind. But then Stoker had been more than a company leader. He'd shaped them. Moulded them. Got them through some of the worst times of the Plutarkian War.

He lowered his head, closed his eyes. He knew that. Was aware of how silent the garage had become. The usual banter was not there. All four of them had gone through too much - it was going to take a lot of time to sort out. They needed each other. He needed them…

But…

Something inside him was broken, snapped in two. There was no glue to mend it. He'd even pushed away Carbine. His own fury at her, at everything, this uncontrollable rage had surprised him. Stoker had taught him to control himself, to harness that rage - especially when his family and friends started dying around him. He'd been so angry, so… He'd wanted to just ram his fist right down the damned fishes' throats and rip their hearts out. He'd just been living his life and then… all hell had broken loose, his life turned inside out completely.

It appeared it still was.

'I don't know what to do, Stoke,' he whispered, shifting with the aid of the crutch awkwardly to face his elder. His voice was soft, cracked - as hopeless as he felt. 'They've broken me.'

Stoker sighed. That he could well sense. His best student's body language was wrong: he was stooped, his eyes dimmed, shivering, his tail tight around his midsection. The fire that had animated him, his fight against the odds, was now directed at himself. He was burning up, inside.

'Then I know just the garage you need, son.'

Chapter 19

She knew he'd taken a shower. The fragrance of the liquid soap he must've used carried on the currents of air into her room. She sighed, looking past the pale reflection of him in the window out at the Garden of Hope. His taking such care meant he'd planned to come, and the reason was not hard to figure out.

'Carbine?' His deep soft voice cut through her absent-minded gazing. 'Babe, I want to say I am sorry.' A pause as he took a slow breath. 'For what I said. For what I did.'

At first she did not answer. She was not sure what to say to him - since he'd caught her off guard. Should she accept his apology? Should she reject it? Their relationship had never been an easy straightforward one, not only because of the timing (in the middle of a WAR of all things!). Their personalities didn't help in matters of the heart. They both were stubborn… strong… duty-bound. Business before pleasure.

'I…' She stopped, that one syllable dying off, and focused in on the figure in the window. He was wearing sweatpants, wet around the waist. He must've pulled them on right after the shower. His fur was moist. He had been in a right hurry then - apologize and run? The one striking thing though - aside from the studly body that was starting to look more like a proper Martian Mouse and less like a prisoner of war survivor - was the absence of the specs Stoker had given him. He was looking at her with open eyes, the eyes he detested because they were not his.

'I thought you were with Stoker, at the Temple,' she blurted the first thing that came to mind.

'We were,' he replied gently, leaning on the column which was holding up the ceiling. This room had suffered much during Plutarkian bombardments. It had not been meant for a bedroom - or for any domestic use for that matter. The column was one of many in the formerly spacious meeting hall which had been subdivided into bedrooms and living quarters for the commanders of the Freedom Fighters. 'Stoker figured it was time.'

'To come and see me?' she asked, biting her lip, her hands tightening on the windowsill.

'To come clean.' His eyes met hers in the glass. 'To talk.'

'And what did you think?' Her voice was softer. She did miss him. His presence steadied her, gave her a scaffold to get grounded on.

He shrugged. 'I agreed.' He fingered the silver piercing in his left ear. 'I did want to see you.'

She turned around, with no hurry, resting against the sill and crossing her arms. Her dark eyes took him in, buying her time to think - although thinking was hard with him right there, smack in front of her.

'You were right, Throttle,' she said softly, not shying away from what had to be done. 'I should never have believed the casualty list or the tapes.' She shook her head, her long thick black hair framing her face. 'Some general I am.'

'Hey.' He pushed away from the column and approached her, the fragrance of that soap all around him. Nodding his head at the view of the Garden, he reminded her, 'You're a great general, Carbine. Without you that wouldn't be here.'

'And without you there wouldn't be any water.' She smiled.

He sniffed, uncomfortable with such praise. He knew she meant him but…

'There were three of us, remember?'

She would have rolled her eyes at such self-effacement but didn't. There were no longer in the first bloom of their attachment - a lot of water had flowed under that bridge.

'You would have made a damn good general, you know,' she suggested, a compliment which he knew was true.

'Stoker tried to make me one.' He shook his head, massaging the nape of his neck. Stoker had admitted as much - had apologized actually. Throttle had not been anticipating THAT. 'Well, that didn't work out.'

'Because you didn't want it. The responsibility.'

'No… not for an entire army, I didn't.' He'd been young then, raw, naive. The Plutarkian War had taught him better, had made him harder. He had grown up, matured - perhaps too early, too quickly. But then in the middle of a shitstorm one couldn't truly choose, right? Live or die. Be quick or be dead. Those were the only options available. Neither he nor his bros had had any intention of winding up as Plutarkian cannon fodder, ever.

'Riding free… that was your thing,' Carbine said, mouth curved slightly.

'It still is.' His voice had dropped a bit. He shifted his weight. His left knee was not shipshape yet even after two months of recuperation and treatment. He had a sinking feeling it never was going to be one hundred percent. Yet another scar to add to the growing tally…

'So, now that you have apologized, will you ride free?' she asked, attempting hard to keep her surprising bitterness out of her voice. He had always promised to come back but somehow that never quite happened - he was always off, saving the universe or something with his buddies.

'No,' he said, drawing out the vowel. 'Stoke's thinking that until I can run ten laps without hobbling to the finish line and falling face first into the sand, he's not letting me go.' He rubbed his palms together: was he sweating? It wasn't that warm in here. 'So, no riding. Not yet.'

His words trailed off as their eyes met - and held. Throttle would have liked to look away but could not. Carbine's eyes would not let him go, not that easily. Not when they were very close, and her hands were on his chest. He inhaled slowly - control, damn it, control! That had been the main subject of his 'recovery school' curriculum: re-learning himself, his thoughts and feelings, putting himself back together into a Martian Mouse he recognized in the mirror of a morning.

And this was one of the many (unannounced of course) tests Stoker liked to put him through. Had to be. Otherwise the old Mouse wouldn't have all but pushed him out of the Temple door. There was a slight smirk playing about her lips as her finger slid down his ripped six-pack, over the new and old scars. For a split second her palm rested there at the bottom - then she reached up to caress his cheek…

O hell, this was a damn test alright!

He was gonna get Stoker for this!

Later.

Whenever that would be...

… Because he found his arms coming around her, pulling her close. Their mouths met. He groaned, his skin breaking out in tingling goosebumps. His fingers wound in her thick long hair - as he'd used to do long ago. Her own fingers were massaging the back of his neck which only added to the sudden feeling of euphoria. There was nothing else but this - simple physical contact, comforting, caring. He had missed this. A lot. What else had he missed? What opportunities squandered? Regrets. Regrets… Was that to be his life? Regret piled upon regret?

In the depths of the Temple, Stoker smirked.

'That's my boy,' he whispered approvingly. 'Passing the test - sort of.'

He adjusted his position a bit. This cold-floor meditation was doing no favours for his old behind. Still… it was nice, quiet. Now that his body was letting him know in no uncertain terms that his riding free time was past, he had decided to take care of himself for a change. The Command Centre had taken him on in an advisory role since his mind was yet as sharp as ever: a compromise his younger self would never have made. However, he had grown, matured as the War progressed - much like the macho trio who'd ended up on Earth. He'd taken on those three punks, out of all his unit with the most spunk, smarts - not to mention animal magnetism and sex appeal. Throttle simply had to walk into a room and every female would zero in on him. Modo could just stand still in a dark corner, unobtrusive - and every living female would still find him. Vincent… Well, being the youngest he'd idolized his older bros and teacher. Perhaps Stoker should've tried to break him of that habit…

'Vincent, my boy, you try too hard.' He smiled into the dark, massaging his knees. 'You need to relax. Hear me?'

'So, am I forgiven?' he asked raising his head to look at her scarred face, his fingers skimming over her flat belly. She sighed, a pleased expression on her face, dark tangled hair spread out on the pillow.

'I am still thinking about that,' she teased, playing with a thick lock of hair.

'Oh come on, babe!' he moaned, only half-seriously.

Her lips curved as her palms brushed his furry face, her eyes losing that hard 'General Carbine' look.

'You haven't been very convincing, hotstuff,' she told him, pressing his nose with one finger. 'Must be out of practice.'

'O you!' he half-growled, shaking his head.

'I thought you and Stoker were working on that: your persuasion skills.' She was going to run this into the ground.

'O is that what it is? Persuasion skills?' he asked, his voice deepening.

Carbine grinned at him.

'He's the Master of Persuasion. He's got the Command Centre eating out of his hand.' Now there was an image to get a chuckle out of anyone. The o-so-mighty Martian army lapping it up from an old Freedom Fighter, whose mind could think on several plains beyond any of theirs.

'He's no longer the Stoker of old.' He rolled his head side to side in a wondering gesture. 'I never thought I'd be saying this but…' He touched a scar on her shoulder. 'He's wiser.'

'And what of you, hotshot? Have you wised up?' She rose to her elbows, bringing her lips closer to his - an open invitation he was not going to refuse.

Sliding his hand around her flank to rest in the small of her back, he bent to nuzzle her neck, feeling her pulse pick up as she let her head drop back. Closing her eyes she drank in the touch of his lips on her. His 'persuasion skills' had lost none of their potency.

'I'm no wisecracker if that's what you're getting at.'

'Mmm….' Carbine ran her hand through his hair. 'A cracker you are not…. But a very tasty Mouse…'

'I guess there's no accounting for taste,' he murmured, feeling lighter than he had in years and nibbling her jaw.

She pinched his ear, painfully, and used that temporary distraction to push him over onto his back.

'If it's taste you want, muscle Mouse,' she warned him, eyes dancing with mischief, settling comfortably on his stomach. 'I'll give you a taste of your own medicine.'

'I guess there's no point putting it off any longer.' Modo sighed, looking around the table at the others. 'Might as well get it out.'

Vincent opened his mouth to say something but Charlie put her hand on his arm and he desisted, shut his mouth. He had a feeling from the expression on his grey-furred bro's face that this was not going to be a happy story. Rimfire's stony expression, lowered eyes, tight lips did not inspire confidence either. Only Throttle appeared genuinely curious: he clearly had no idea what it was that Modo was going to tell them.

'It's….' He really had a hard time finding the right words. He'd carried this secret for so long. 'It's about Vic.' Rimfire started, swallowed. 'Viktor was my brother.'

Vincent's jaw dropped. Throttle sat up straight. Rimfire laced his fingers together on the table, knuckles white.

'You had a brother?' Charlene found her voice at last. She was as astonished as the others. Modo was not one to spill his innermost thoughts but a secret of this magnitude, about his family!?

'Yea…' Modo rubbed his wrist, not too happy. He did not have the same gift of gab as Vincent. 'He… he died… in the War. Because of me.' The last three words were a soft whisper of guilt as he stared at the table top.

'Uncle…' Rimfire began but Modo made a cutting motion with his hand.

'No, nephew. Let me tell it.' His palm dragged down his sad face as he gathered himself for this ordeal. 'It happened… doesn't really matter where… we were fighting in the trenches…'

As their old friend told his story in a low but clear voice, in short sentences, looking as miserable as they'd ever seen him, his buddies couldn't help but be drawn in to the story. Vincent could clearly see the trenches, the Plutarkian machines, hear the explosions. Throttle felt his buddy's pain, hidden for so long. Charlie simply wanted to hug the big Mouse, who was like a big brother to her. Rimfire had covered his face with his hands, no doubt reliving his uncle's pain with him, although he too had a secret, a message from his father to his uncle, a message which he had only been supposed to give in the eventuality of his father's death. He had never thought he would actually be doing so.

Until now.

Until his uncle had finished his story and fallen silent, his hands fisted to try and contain his emotions.

'Big fella,' Vincent was the first to speak into the dead silence after Modo's words had trailed off.

'You remind me of him, Vin,' the broad-chested biker rumbled, holding his white-furred bro's gaze. 'A great deal.'

'It's an honour, bro.' He held out his hand which Modo gripped tightly, lips pulled back in a gentle smile: nothing could ever keep Vinman from finding humour in a tragic situation - another gift that Modo did not have. Well, Vincent more than made up for that, right?

'Uncle,' Rimfire looked up at his relative, eyes misted over. 'There is something you should know.'

Modo bit his lip, nodded. He was ready for it, for whatever was coming. His soul was clear now so what came next did not really matter.

'Father always meant for you to look after us, Prime and me,' Rimfire stated baldly. 'That's what he always told us. You would be our father if…' He shrugged, throat closing up. 'I think… I think that's why he took such risks. He knew we wouldn't be alone.' He chewed his lip. 'But he knew if he told you…'

'... I'd worry,' Modo finished for him, pinching the space between his eyes. 'Oh Vic… you wicked mamajama… that is so like you.' He chuckled, almost sobbed. His shoulders shook.

Throttle put a steady hand on one wide shoulder. These revelations helped to explain some of his most even-keeled bro's surprising behaviour sometimes. No wonder he was so protective of Charlie. No wonder if he 'mothered' (or was it 'fathered'?) Vincent sometimes. They were all his family, not just Rimfire and Prime. He did not want to lose them to some preventable accident or foolishness.

Charlene picked up her glass of root beer, nudging Vincent to do the same. When all of them had the fizzy brown drink lifted, she smiled at each in turn.

'To family.'

'To brotherhood.'

'To the Biker Mice…'

'... from Mars.'

Five glasses clinked.


End file.
